


Anthology

by OccasionallyCreative



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst, Darklock, Domestic Fluff, Drunk Sherlock, Drunken Shenanigans, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Film Fics, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Genderswap, Growing Old Together, Humor, I promise, Implied Sexual Content, Mild Smut, Mirror Universe, Parentlock, Pirate!lock, Potterlock, Professor!Lock, Romance, Sexual Content, Smut, Swaplock, Teenlock, These tags are necessary, Vampire Molly, Vampire Sherlock, Vamplock, drunk!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-28 10:18:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 286
Words: 304,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionallyCreative/pseuds/OccasionallyCreative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A compilation of all the different prompt fics and short stories that I've originally posted on Tumblr. The main pairing is Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper from the BBC Sherlock fandom, but there are some other pairings and fandoms that pop up, which are all tagged and labelled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lie Down with Me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> morbidmegz gave a challenge to pick a sleeping position from [this picture](http://40.media.tumblr.com/047b9c647627f9086f7d9219b58af99a/tumblr_ms25bhYFyw1rmkh24o1_500.jpg) of sleeping positions and then write a small drabble.

The argument started out trivial—just a bickering match about the washing up. Trivial, domestic stuff.

But these things can so easily escalate, can’t they? That’s what happens with humans. Perhaps it’s something to do with primeval urges—an incessant need for someone to defend themselves against an incoming attack. A fight for survival.

Sherlock stayed curled up on the sofa. He grabbed for his robe, but immediately remembered that it was hanging on the back of his bedroom door. And it was in his bedroom that a very cross Molly was, having shut herself inside when it all got too much.

He wasn’t surprised. The things he’d said had been particularly awful, even for him. What he was surprised at was how horrible he felt, knowing that Molly was wrapped in his duvet, upset and hurt. Unlike his arguments with either Mycroft or Lestrade, there was no feeling of pride within him; no sense of triumph.

Oh, this was useless. There was really no feasible point in the both of them staying curled up in separate rooms of the flat because of an argument. Sherlock stood up and slowly moved towards the bedroom door.

"Molly?" he murmured as he tapped on the door. There was no sound. Had she fallen asleep? Probably—definitely if she had been crying. After such a release of stress hormones, it was only right for her body to feel some degree of exhaustion. He opened the door and found that he had been right. She was curled up on the left side of the unmade bed, still dressed in her clothes. She didn’t stir as he entered, and nor did she stir as he lay down beside her.

For a few moments, he watched her sleep. He often did that; it helped him mute his thoughts for long enough so he could sleep without interruption. Although he had come here to apologise, he couldn’t interrupt her now. It would be better to talk to her in the morning.

But he couldn’t fall asleep without letting her know that he was there. With the lightest of touches he reached forward and gently lay his hand against her skin as his fingertips slowly caressed the warm surface.

He couldn’t see it, and it would only be in the morning that she told him, but Molly had heard him come in. She had felt his weight slide onto the mattress, and when she felt his fingertips gently stroking over her skin, she smiled sleepily.


	2. Letting Her Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt provided by ladysnarker on Tumblr, in which Molly didn't help Sherlock with The Fall, and is sent a mysterious package soon after.

Dead, that’s what he was. Sherlock Holmes was dead. And Molly, for the first week of his death, was heartbroken. But she didn’t show it—how could she? John was grieving, Lestrade was facing a huge amount of difficulties at work… Everyone Sherlock had known had been shattered by his death.

Over the week though, Molly’s tears dried up, little by little. She still hurt, but she knew that it wouldn’t be good for anyone if she just broke down crying every time a tall, lithe man with dark curls reared up in her mind’s eye.

Thankfully, Mike let her have at least Friday off. He’d said that it was because it was the end of the week, and less work was coming in, but Molly knew the real reason. Mike, in his bumbling and friendly way, knew that Molly had loved Sherlock, and he knew that she needed time to mourn.

So Molly’s Friday was mostly spent in bed, with Toby curled up beside her, his fur radiating warmth. Molly herself switched between two states: crying or sleeping from the comedown of crying. She knew she shouldn’t be so foolish to be lying in bed, weeping over a man who—for much of the time—had barely given her a second glance… but it was that image. That night in the lab kept looming up at her, Sherlock’s voice echoing in her mind.

_What do you need?_

_You._

It was what happened after that that she didn’t want to think about. She didn’t want to think about how urgent his kiss had been, or how quickly he had left her.

The clatter of her letterbox shook her from her reverie. Toby meowed curiously and leapt off the bed, padding at the door with his paws. With some effort, Molly swung her tired body out of the bed and shuffled towards the door. She hadn’t even opened it a crack before Toby had squeezed himself through the door and shot off towards her front door. Molly followed, and stopped to find that Toby was sat at the door, scratching at a small, white envelope.

"No, Toby, no," Molly said quickly, as she both scooped Toby up to her chest and picked up the envelope.

It was small to medium, about the size of a birthday card—but there was no writing on it. No name, nothing. Until she turned it over. On the back, there was her name, written in a curled scribble:  _Miss Hooper._

It was probably her brother. He always did things back to front. Plus, the envelope felt heavy. Yep—definitely her brother. Her birthday had been and gone a couple of weeks before, so no doubt her brother would compensate for missing it by sending her both a present and a card in the same breath.

So without much care, she ripped open the envelope and…

"Oh."

It was not her brother after all. Inside, there were two items: one, a folded up note. The other? A lock of dark, curled hair.

Interesting? Yes. Unexpected? Very.

Sitting down on her sofa, Molly examined the contents more thoroughly; even though there was nothing really concrete enough to examine.

After all, the note only read one thing:

_One man falls, leaving the other to rise. Blood on the pavement; dead men tell no lies._

"One man falls…"

Sherlock’s body, falling, falling… No. She wasn’t going to think about that.

"Leaves the other to rise…"

The actor… Richard Brook… No—he was Moriarty—Brook didn’t exist; he couldn’t. Molly knew that.

"Blood on the pavement…"

More flashes; Sherlock’s blood-soaked curls, John…, Sherlock’s corpse, wheeled into the morgue, blood mixing with rain…

"Dead men tell no lies."

It was the last line that stuck her. Over and over, the phrase rolled throughout the vestiges of her mind, never sticking and never staying.

Another image barrelled through her imagination towards her. It wasn’t of blood, or of any gore. It was Sherlock, that night in the lab. His eyes… they had been so sincere, so… truthful.

_Molly, I think I’m going to die._

Molly was frozen now, stuck in the knowledge that she’d been provided: Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, was not dead.


	3. Disturbances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another prompt by ladysnarker on Tumblr, who requested a fic where Sherlock keeps getting disrupted in his work by Toby, Molly's cat.

When Sherlock had first been introduced to Toby, the meeting hadn’t gone well. Toby had taken one look at Sherlock and clearly decided that Sherlock would become his new cushion. Of course, the world’s only consulting detective wasn’t too pleased about this. He preferred Molly’s company to a cat’s, and so he quickly took to brushing Toby away every time he came at least a foot near him.

But Toby was insistent—very insistent in fact. Every time Sherlock visited, he wait until Sherlock was deep in thought and quietly curl up on his stomach, where he’d sleep; right up to the point that Sherlock stirred out of his mind palace. At that point, there would usually be a swear word or two from the detective and a very disgruntled Toby being thrown across the room.

After the tenth occasion of this happening, Sherlock rounded on Molly.

"You could at least train your damn cat!"

"Cats are independent creatures, Sherlock. They can’t be trained."

"I know that," Sherlock said irritably, carefully eyeing the approaching Toby.

"It’s probably because you’re warm. Cats like that."

"Yes, well. I am not your cat’s personal radiator."

Molly bit back a laugh. “I know you’re not. But is Toby really interfering with your thinking?”

"Yes."

"Okay then. New rule: I visit you at Baker Street instead of you visiting me at my flat. And I don’t bring Toby with me."

Sherlock shrugged as he lay back on the sofa and stretched out into his thinking pose. “Good.”

* * *

The next day, Molly strolled down to Baker Street at the end of her shift. The first thing she was greeted by however was not Sherlock, but a worried-looking Mrs. Hudson.

"Mrs. Hudson. Everything okay?"

"I’m fine dear, but well… it’s Sherlock."

"What’s happened?"

"I agreed to look after my sister’s cats while she went to hospital you see—she’s got a bad hip, poor dear—and…"

Mrs. Hudson didn’t even need to finish the sentence. Molly jogged up the steps to Sherlock’s flat and opened the door. This time, she couldn’t help but laugh.

For the great consulting detective was currently lying back on the sofa, with a very, very disgruntled look on his face. One cat was curled up on the top of the sofa, another was sleeping deeply on Sherlock’s stomach and the last had made themselves very comfortable on the top of Sherlock’s head.

"Molly, this isn’t a laughing matter."

Molly disagreed. A giggle burst from her and grew, quickly grew into a full-bellied laugh.

Sherlock frowned. Clearly he was going to be stuck like this for quite a while.


	4. The Effects of Anaesthesia.

Inspired by: [[x](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IqebEymqFS8)]

It had been approximately three hours since Molly Hooper had seen her husband go into surgery, and when he did finally emerge from the operating room, she was by his side. The doctors gave her every detail of his operation and how it had gone. Everything had gone swimmingly, according to them, and they told her he only needed one night in the hospital before he would be going back home. Molly knew her husband however, and with him being as stubborn as he was, it would probably only be a few hours before he would be strolling out of the hospital, claiming himself to be absolutely fine.

So Molly merely sat beside his bed and gently stroked at his thumb, waiting for him to stir from his deep sleep. During that time, she received only three texts—one from John, and two from her daughter Imogen. Both inquired after both Molly and her sleeping husband.

He was sweet when he slept. Even after 20 years of marriage to possibly the most frustrating man in England, she still loved every part of him. His thick dark curls had begun to grey at the edges now, and there were a few more wrinkles around his eyes, but he was still as handsome as ever.

"Uhhhhh," Sherlock groaned as he finally stirred. Molly smiled at him, but he didn’t seem to register her at first.

"Hello," she said quietly, her smile widening as she looked into his sleep-filled eyes.

"You’re beautiful, you know," he said slowly and he smiled. Molly frowned. It wasn’t the compliment that was strange; she had heard him things similar in the past, things that had been much more eloquent and at times, much more erotic.

"Thank you," she said and she gently caressed his soft curls. If humans could’ve purred, Sherlock just had.

"Sshh," she whispered. "The doctor will be in soon to do some checks."

In his anaesthesia-riddled state, Sherlock groaned. “Doctors are useless.”

"Oh, really?"

"Not you. You’re clever."

"Thank you, but hush now. You need rest."

"I should’ve married you when I had the chance…" Sherlock muttered, drifting back into sleep. Molly’s laughter brought him back.

"You did marry me, you clot."

"Did I?" Sherlock said, genuine surprise in his voice, and Molly could’ve sworn to see her husband’s eyes light up with delight.

"20 years ago now."

Sherlock emitted a low, happy chuckle. “I’m glad… The detective and the pathologist.”

"More of a professor now, really."

"I prefer pathologist."

"Of course you do," Molly replied, and she kissed him lightly before resting her forehead against his.

The anaesthesia would of course wear off soon. And when it did, Molly had great fun relating their conversation to a now clear-headed Sherlock. To her surprise, Sherlock didn’t groan or make excuses; he just smiled one of his little smiles and looked at her.

"The sentiment remains, my dear Molly."

Molly kissed him again and straightened his bedsheets. “I know that. Now, get some sleep.”

Sherlock tried to get out some smart remark, but sleep overcame him, and all that streamed from his mouth was a string of vowels and consonants. Molly giggled as she stroked at his warm palm with her thumb.

His words floated in her mind.

_The detective and the pathologist._

She liked that.


	5. Laundry Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt provided by soyeahso on Tumblr of "laundry day".

With a huff, Sherlock scooped the wet clothes out of the washing machine as Molly watched, a mug of warm tea in her hands and an amused smile on her lips.

"What?" Sherlock said grumpily, but she just shrugged.

"Just never thought someone could be this cross about doing laundry."

"Mrs Hudson usually does it."

"Otherwise known as just leaving it until Mrs Hudson gets fed up of the mess and does it for you."

Sherlock merely grunted by way of reply and he sullenly stood up and made his way towards the stairs. It was just as he was getting to the top of the stairs that Molly spoke, calling his name over her shoulder.

“If you’re really quick, I might just reward you.”

Sherlock turned on his heel, his signature grin on his face. “Reward me?”

“Maybe.”

The washing basket dropped to the floor and within just a few strides, Sherlock was right opposite Molly. With a grin, he took her mug of tea from her hands and scooped her up into his arms.

“Sherlock!” she said, laughing.

“I don’t need rewards for doing chores, Miss Hooper.”

Molly grinned. “I know that. Now, are you taking me into that bedroom or not?”

Sherlock chuckled and skirted past the now forgotten laundry.

They only remembered about it when they finally emerged from the bedroom to find the washing basket gone and a handwritten note that said: “ _This is the last time. I’m not your housekeeper! Love, Mrs Hudson._ ”


	6. The Beach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt on Tumblr of "Sherlolly at the beach."

Mycroft had insisted that the two of them come here. At first, Sherlock had dismissed the idea as stupid—but still Mycroft had insisted. It was the only place that the contact would meet them.

It was when they got to the beach that Sherlock realised why Mycroft had insisted on this being the meeting place. Surrounded by ominous cliff faces, it was bitterly cold and completely abandoned. Hardly a place for holiday makers.

Both he and Molly jumped out of the car and walked towards an old fisherman’s shack, which had clearly been out of use for quite some time. Old wooden signs hung off rusty nails and as they got closer, there was the distinct smell of rotting fish. Together, they stood by the door, watching and waiting.

"I guess you won’t miss this," Molly said, her teeth chattering slightly, even though she was wrapped up tightly in her own winter coat and scarf. It made sense, for someone of her petite stature to feel the cold much more than he could.

"No. I won’t," he said after a moment. It had been almost three years now since the day at St. Bart’s, and for almost all of that time, Molly had been there with him, as his friend, his assistant and most recently, his lover. It had been only a few weeks ago that he had owned up to that which he had been denying for so long. She, to his surprise, expected nothing to come of their union. She hadn’t said it, but he knew. It was the lack of hope that gave it away. The acceptance he knew she felt whenever they were together. She had been waiting so long, so when he had finally owned up to what he had been blind to for so long, she had merely accepted it as nothing more than inevitability.

His reverie was broken by Molly nudging him slightly.

"Is that…?"

Looking in the direction where she was pointing, he immediately saw them. Two figures. One was short and thin, whilst the other was lean and carrying an umbrella by his side. Sherlock almost cracked a smile.

The figures eventually revealed themselves to be his brother and the contact, who turned out to be a bearded man, with sharp blue eyes. His features showed that he had spent much of his time at sea, and when he came closer to the shack, he smiled; much like a man coming home to his child. So this was his shack.

"Brother," Mycroft drawled. Sherlock’s only reply was to nod in greeting. Mycroft’s gaze fell on Molly, and he quirked his eyebrow slightly in disbelief.

"I see you haven’t tired of your need for accomplices."

"Shut up Mycroft."

"This one is different however."

Sherlock just glared. This only seemed to encourage his brother however. Once again, his eyes drifted over Molly, and then Sherlock. His look of surprise lowered into a frown.

"I thought I told you before, Sherlock. Caring is not an advantage."

"You did. But we’re not here for me." Swiftly, he turned on his heel towards the old fisherman. "I believe you have information."

The old fisherman looked to Mycroft before speaking. It was only when Mycroft nodded that he began to speak. His accent was thick, from somewhere in rural Germany, and his English was disjointed, as if he were only beginning to learn it. Presumably under Mycroft’s suggestion. Less need for translators = less witnesses.

"The man you are after…" the old fisherman said. "Moran. I know him. He was child when he came here. Often alone. Most times he talked to me. We became friends. But he left, one day, out of blue. But three years ago, he come back. Bought my gun. Gave me address. Told me to visit."

At this, the fisherman brought out a crumpled, ripped piece of paper and handed it to Sherlock. The address was a London address; presumably a flat bought by Moriarty when he was putting his plans in motion.

"It’s viable," Mycroft said. "My men have been supervising it for a week now, and several descriptions matching Moran have come through. We’re sure he’s still there."

"Probably to try and gain revenge on me. Moran and Moriarty were lovers, were they not?"

"It’s believed so."

Sherlock nodded, his mind already working.

"Moran is clearly a sentimental man—why else stay in a city which isn’t in your native country if you don’t hold some personal connection to it? I’d wager that he and Moriarty often met in that very flat. You say that he gave this address to you three years ago—Moran then obviously believed he would be staying there for an indeterminate amount of time. However, considering that Moriarty barely held any capacity for any sort of sentiment, it’s likely that he made several promises to Moran in order to keep Moran on side. Therefore, it’s easy to conclude that after Moriarty’s death, Moran would stay on; illegally of course. He—" Sherlock stopped.  _Of course._

"He’s waiting for you," Molly finally said.

Sherlock nodded. “In the weeks leading up to my confrontation with Moriarty, there were countless tabloid pieces insinuating several things about John and I’s sexuality. At the time, I barely noticed them—tabloids always lie to get the most salacious story—but someone driven by sentiment, someone like Moran, would probably believe it.”

"An eye for an eye," Mycroft said idly.

"Yes, well, in his eyes, I killed Moriarty—"

"So he’s going to kill John in return. Sherlock, we have to get back to London."

"We do, but not for the reason you think Molly. You see, we have an advantage over Moran."

"And what’s that?" Molly asked. Mycroft raised a warning eyebrow at his brother, but Sherlock waved a dismissive hand and looked to Molly. In her eyes was the hope that had been missing for so long.

"You," he answered finally.

"M-me?"

Sherlock said nothing, only nodded. He expected Molly to say something, but she too said nothing. She just tightly took hold of his hand, her eyes steeled with determination.

"We’re going back to London. We’ll use this advantage against him."

"Molly, you’ll get hurt."

Molly shook her head, carefully reaching her hand into his curls. “You don’t get it, do you?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, and caught his mouth with hers.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes," she murmured, resting her forehead against his. "I will do anything to keep you and your friends safe."

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile. “The feeling is mutual, Miss Hooper.”

"Well, this is all very lovely, brother," Mycroft said after a moment, glancing at his watch. "But I do believe you have a plane to catch."


	7. Surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt provided on Tumblr by morbidmegz. The full prompt was "Sherlock decides he wants to surprise Molly by doing something nice for her birthday. Just one problem; she's too sick to leave her bed, much less her flat."

There was an expression that Mrs. Hudson often used: “not a happy bunny”. An odd colloquialism, and so Sherlock often chose to ignore it.

On this occasion however, he was predisposed to use it. Ever since he woke up that morning, Molly hadn’t moved from the bed; she was more focused on clutching at her stomach and groaning. A simple case of winter flu, and it would most likely be eradicated in a number of days—if not a week.

But for now, it had thrown his plans into disarray. For a good couple of weeks now, he had been thoroughly planning his surprise for her. She hadn’t demanded anything too big, and Sherlock wasn’t one to disobey her. Anyway, he never did too well in large crowds. He’d proven that almost a hundred times over in his lifetime.

"Sherlock…" Molly groaned, her voice travelling from the bedroom and into his laboratory (otherwise known as John’s old bedroom). He looked up and skirted through the hall, knocking carefully on the door.

"Molly?"

She didn’t reply, but the sound of vomiting soon followed. Sherlock glanced at his watch. It was barely 12 in the afternoon yet. He didn’t bother knocking this time, and stepped inside to find Molly curled up in bed, her head lowered over a bucket.

On seeing Sherlock however, she quickly cleaned herself up and tried a smile.

"Oh. Hello. I thought you were busy with that burglary case of yours."

"I was. But that can wait," he said as he gently sat beside her on the mattress and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Molly let out a little laugh, followed by a short yawn.

"Fair enough. Any leads?"

"A few. But as I said, they can wait."

Molly nodded and snuggled closer to him, her body warm against him.

"You were going to surprise me today, weren’t you?"

Sherlock only stared at her, causing her to giggle once again before she spoke. “Ordinary folk can deduce things too, you know.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows quirked upwards as he smiled. “Yes, I suppose they can. But you needn’t have worried—the surprise wasn’t a big party. No, that’s too dull. I—”

But he stopped. “No. You should guess.”

Molly huffed a little and settled into his arms once more. “I’m rubbish at guessing games. I was hoping for a dinner party though.”

Sherlock grinned. “Well done Miss Hooper.”

He proceeded to tell her all about the little details he had planned for his surprise. She reacted accordingly, either smiling or telling him of any mistakes. Luckily, he’d got more right than wrong—it was almost a pity that she was sick, she claimed.

"Indeed a pity. But it’ll only be a few days, so the dinner party can still go ahead when you’re feeling well enough."

Again, there was no reply from Molly. Her cheeks, however, flushed red and she squirrelled down into the bedsheets.

"Molly?"

"Go away," was her only response. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Molly, you shouldn’t sit like that. Your stomach is already in enough pain, and that is hardly a great position for optimum recovery."

"Still go away."

"I will tickle you."

Silence. Then, a small voice. “Fine.”

With reluctance, she reappeared from the bed and stretched out flat on her back, giving him a look.

"Better?"

"For you, yes."

Molly shrugged. “It’s funny really. Here you were, planning your surprise, when I had a surprise of my own.”

"Pardon?"

"Sherlock, c’mon. You must know about a woman’s biology. You certainly know about mine."

"Wrong. I know about what  _stimulates_  you, not your biology.”

"I know that," Molly said irritably, her cheeks flushing a even more vibrant shade of crimson. "Anyway. Surely you know the biological basics. You know; sudden tiredness, regular sickness during morning periods…"

Of course. It was so  _obvious_  now. He carefully moved away, his hands steepling together as he gathered as much information from his mind palace that he could. They had been discussing the idea of children for a while now, but they had never come to any real conclusion. But it seemed that Molly’s biological system had decided on their behalf.

Molly had unfortunately taken his sudden silence as a negative response.

"If you didn’t want this kid, you could say so."

Sherlock glanced at her; he looked almost pained. “Molly, we have been together for almost five years now, and have regularly discussed the possibility of children; why should I change my mind now?”

"I don’t know… People change their minds all the time."

"I am not people."

Molly couldn’t help but chuckle a little at his words. Sherlock Holmes was most definitely not people. He was human though, and humans did make mistakes.

"But are you sure you want this child? I mean, I do, but I—"

"Molly, stop. Of course I want this child. You should know by now that when I make a decision, I stick to it. I do not backtrack—especially not from something like this child." Sherlock smiled at her and gently cupped his hand over her soft, warm stomach. Molly returned the sentiment, entwining her fingers with his as she dropped an affectionate kiss on his knuckles. Sherlock returned it by lightly catching her lips with his.

"Happy birthday, Molly Hooper."


	8. Meeting. (Professorlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt on Tumblr, who asked for Sherlolly in a library.

Molly sighed, scooped back her hair into a ponytail and adjusted her glasses. To say she was stressed was an understatement. It was only a week before she started her second year at university, and her tutor had so kindly thought to only provide her with the list of her required texts about a week beforehand. So now she had to spend almost every waking moment in the student library and pour over (what seemed to be) an endless amount of textbooks.

There was only one other person who spent as much time in the library as she did. He was of a lean physique, with a mass of short dark curls and lord, his cheekbones.

Suffice to say, he made the prospect of studying a little less tedious. She never spoke to him, and he never spoke to her. He seemed to have more on his mind, but then, so did she, and so conversation wasn’t high on either of their lists.

* * *

The fact that she had had to come in on a Sunday wasn’t one she liked. Once again, she’d had to cancel plans with her friends and instead spend her time wandering the quiet corridors of the library, her neck craning to see the books numbers.

 _Pity that guy with the cheekbones isn’t around,_  she thought to herself as she browsed yet another shelf with no luck.  _At least ogling at him could pass the time…_

"Essential Clinical Anatomy?" a voice drawled from behind her. Molly whipped around, and had to suppress a squeak. It was him, and he was standing—no, looming—over her. Up close, those cheekbones looked even more impossibly gorgeous.

"Uh, reference from my tutor," she managed to say, but he merely raised an eyebrow and picked another book from the shelves and pressed it into her hands. The fact that she buckled a little from the sudden weight didn’t seem to cross his mind.

"I recommend this, and I’d advise that you don’t seek any more recommendations from your tutor—he’s an idiot."

"Um… Thanks, I guess?"

The man smirked a little. “You’re welcome, Miss…?”

"Oh, Molly. I’m Molly Hooper."

The man stuck out a hand, still with that little smirk on his face. “Sherlock Holmes.”

It was with hesitation that she took his hand. Normally, she was fine around guys. But this man was so big… kind of _overwhelming_. It didn’t help that when he looked at her, she felt like he knew everything about her.

"Well, Miss Hooper. Good afternoon."

He turned to go, but for some reason, Molly didn’t want him to. It was the way he looked at her; in a weird way, it was kind of intoxicating. She had to keep him back. To her embarrassment however, it was with a mousy squeak that she called his name.

"Yes?" he asked as he turned, apparently amused.

"Well, um… If I can’t take the recommendations of my tutor, who am I suppose to take them from?"

Sherlock moved closer towards her, and it was only she was backed up against the shelves that he stopped. With deft, soft fingers, he retrieved the pen tucked behind her ear, and she tried desperately to suppress the shiver that came with feeling his skin ghost over her own.

"Hold out your palm."

She did so, without question, and she couldn’t help but giggle as he moved the pen over the pinky flesh of her palm.

"There," he said after a moment, and he tucked the pen back against her ear. "Contact me between 11 and 3 on weekdays. If you contact me at any other time, I will not pick up. Understand?"

Molly nodded dumbly. There was just something so  _hot_  about the way he used his voice, and the way in which he commanded her… oof. Normally, she’d be prepared to match any man who spoke to her in such a way, but when he spoke, she wanted to run her fingers through those short dark curls of his—as well as a few other things.

"Stop blushing, Miss Hooper. It’s really quite unbecoming."

"Yes, sir."

Oh dear. She hadn’t entirely meant to say that. If she hadn’t before, she had definitely revealed much more about herself now. And it wasn’t usually socially accepted to accidentally reveal your… tendencies in front of a stranger/fellow university student.

He didn’t seem to mind though. Instead, he merely chuckled deeply— _oh, Lord, even his laugh was sexy_ —and turned away.

She watched him leave, and sighed a little.  _It’s not just the cheekbones that are gorgeous_ , she thought.

* * *

Although she couldn’t get him out of her mind for the remainder of that week, she desperately hoped she wouldn’t see him again. That would’ve just led into a whole nest of awkwardness and one-sided blushing.

It was to both her surprise and disappointment then that she walked into the lecture hall on the first day to find that standing at the professor’s desk with a suitcase on one side and a pile of papers on the other was a lean man with short, dark curls and very,  _very_  attractive cheekbones.


	9. Meeting. (Professorlock) (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just-jess12 on Tumblr requested a second part to my Sherlolly in a library fic.
> 
> Said sequel got smutty.

Molly Hooper had taken to fantasizing about her professor. Another thing to add to the endless list of things wrong with her.

Who on earth—who in their right mind even—fantasized about their professor? But then, Molly had never known of many professors with such handsome cheekbones as his, and nightly, she found herself writhing on her bed, crying his name into her pillow as she pretended that it wasn’t her hands between her thighs but his own. His soft, dexterous hands.

Oh, but he would be so good.

And yet it was so  _wrong_.

Which only served to make the thought of it all the more delicious.

* * *

It was amazing, really, that she managed to keep her composure around him. Weekly, she turned up to lectures and seminars and she was perfectly polite to him, asking questions when they needed to be asked and turning in work when she had to. Only the greatest genius could be able to tell the severity of the effect his voice and those damn cheekbones had on her.

Late into the fifth week, he had been carelessly stuffing his papers into his suitcase when he saw her leaving the lecture hall.

"You were rather quiet today, Miss Hooper."

Molly stopped, turning towards him. His gaze was more intense than he’d ever seen it, and more than a little overwhelming. This time she couldn’t hide it, and her skin grew hot as a crimson flush spread over her cheeks and chest.  _Christ, he knows._

"Interesting," he murmured, and he crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back against his desk.

"I read the textbook that you recommended, sir," she said quickly. Maybe if she kept the conversation to minimal small talk, she might be able to get away with it and not give away just how much she wanted this man to  _overwhelm_ her.

"Good. Enjoy it?"

"Very much. It was informative."

"Informative?"

Molly nodded. “Yes. Do you… do you have any other recommendations for me?”

He quirked an eyebrow in amusement. “A few.”

"Oh! Great, I’ll—" She scrabbled inside her bag for a paper and pen, but he spoke.

"Stop." She obeyed. How could she not when that voice was giving the command? She carefully eyed him. It was that immediate reaction to obedience that seemed to intrigue him more. For a while, he said nothing.

"Miss Hooper, sit down. On the desk," he added, when she made for the chairs. She gulped, eyes narrowing.

"Yes, sir."

Carefully, she placed her bags on the floor and hesitantly sat on his desk, her legs crossed and her palms folded neatly in her lap. For a moment, he appraised her, but quickly shook his head. Molly bit back a smile. She’d done something wrong.

"Put your palms on the desk. Uncross your legs."

"Are you sure, sir?" A loaded question, with far too many meanings. The corners of his mouth quirked up into a smile, one that was sly and knowing.

"I am."

A knock on the door deflated her increasing excitement. Apparently, it had annoyed him too, for his smile disappeared as he strode quickly to the door and left the room. A quick of exchanges, and he was back in the room.

"Who was that?"

"Principal Lestrade," he said with a sigh as he walked back to the desk, and he only stopped when he was standing close opposite her, his thigh wedged in between her uncrossed legs. Once again, he looked at her, his eyes scanning, drinking in everything he could. Her face, her body. His gaze settled on her features, blue eyes on her mouth.

"You want to know how I figured it out. Don’t you, Miss Hooper?"

"Yes," she said quietly. She wanted to avert his gaze, lower her head, but she held his gaze.

"Biology is a perfectly simple concept, Miss Hooper. You know that. The biology of attraction is even more clear-cut. Dilated pupils…" Slowly, his fingers laced themselves around her wrist. "And a severely elevated pulse. Have you been running a marathon, Miss Hooper?"

Molly shrugged, but couldn’t help but let out a giggle. His eyes hardened a little as he dropped her wrist from his grip. His smile however, remained.

"Listen to me carefully, Miss Hooper. For the next five minutes, you will not move, smile or say a single word. Not even a squeak. You will only speak when I command it. However, if you become uncomfortable at any point, you  _must_ let me know, and I will desist immediately. Is that clear?”

Slowly, she nodded, and he cracked a smile as his fingers descended down the length of her torso, tantalisingly skipping over the skin of her thigh. The pace with which he did so was agonisingly slow, but Molly bit her lip and, as instructed, said nothing.

He teased her with the feeling of his fingers on hers, dancing from here to there across her thighs as he slowly made his way up her legs. She resisted a laugh and kept her palms tightly gripped around the edge of the desk. He leaned in close to her ear.

“Good, Miss Hooper. Very good.”

With those words, he tapped at her knee. Obediently, wordlessly, she spread herself. He murmured praise to her, his breath warm on her neck and his mouth pressed a soft kiss to her warmed flesh, just as he thumbed the edge of her knickers. He drew one deft digit against the cloth and she almost jumped from the shiver that shot up against her spine. His other hand reached up, cupping at her neck.

"How quiet you are. Clever girl." He traced his fingers through the curls of her hair and against her jaw. His eyes, those blue eyes, seered into her. His thumb gently drew against her bottom lip. He spoke again, the words barely breathed. "Tell me what you want me to do."

She held in a breath. "Touch me. Sir."

His touch was light, gentle and every part of her screamed out to moan, to give out some sound of pleasure, but she still stayed silent, her gaze locked on the almost malicious, playful gaze he directed at her as, little by little, his exploration of her deepened. A low chuckle emitted from his throat, and she had to smile. He was enjoying this just as much as she was, if not more.

"Speak."

She shivered, shuddered and moaned as her elation poured out of her, from every pore, and she knew that obedience had never been so much fun. He grinned and caught her mouth, kissing her greedily as his free hand softly cupped her cheek. Fumbled words tripped from her tongue, but he stilled them with another, lighter kiss and stepped back.

"You’re welcome, Miss Hooper." It was with a small smile that he watched her look up at him, a smile slowly spreading across her features. Her eyes danced as she slid off the desk and stood.

"Until next week, sir?"

"Until next week, Miss Hooper."


	10. Discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another anonymous Tumblr prompt, this time with the prompt of "Whilst on a case, Sherlock sees Molly's current boyfriend with another woman."
> 
> In terms of timelines, I wrote this as taking place in-between Hounds of the Baskerville and the Reichenbach Fall.

The case he had been pursuing was around about a 7; intriguing enough to accept, but not memorable enough to earn a room inside his mind palace.

One of the leads on the case had led him and John to a small flat in the vicinity of West Ham. On seeing that it was locked with no other forms of entry (damn people and their incessant need for security), John had suggested that they visit the cafe opposite and keep an eye out. Sherlock knew that John only wanted to fill his stomach with food, but he wasn’t going to complain. John was ordinary; of course he’d need to refuel at some point.

The cafe was one of those typical ‘greasy spoons’ that John was seemingly so fond of. The waitress serving them had unfortunately recognised them, and chattered inanely about her admiration for their work. John, thankfully, engaged her conversation with a few smiles and nods, leaving Sherlock to his work.

He scanned the street outside, feigning lazy disinterest in anything he saw. Groups of people walked past the cafe window, but none of them ever went into the flat. Sherlock sighed a little and sank lower into his seat as he continued to watch.

"Don’t you think the burglar could’ve done a run?"

"No. The robbery hasn’t been announced yet."

"He could’ve run anyway," John mused. Sherlock smiled and shook his head.

"No. When I looked into his kitchen, I spied his wallet and his phone still on the counter—along with a packed overnight bag. No criminal, however stupid they were, would leave their personal possessions at their home. He’s probably laying low for a little while, just until…"

He stopped. A woman and man were passing the cafe, on the other side of the street. The woman was standard height, hair dyed blonde. Mouth hanging open on account of the gum she was so haphazardly chewing. The man was a little taller than her, with frizzy brown hair and a flashy smile.

John frowned. “Just until what?”

"Shut up John." Sherlock continued to watch the man and woman, certain he had seen them somewhere before.

Then it hit him. He had only seen the man for a few seconds, in the lab at St. Bart’s. Molly had finished her shift, and Sherlock had offered to escort her out of the building. It had surprised him when she turned him down, and he quickly saw the reason. It was a frizzy brown haired man, with a smile too wide to be trustworthy.

Sherlock had known at first glance that this man was too superficial to be considered ‘nice’, but ever since his encounter with “Jim from IT”, and the way in which that had hurt Molly, he hadn’t said anything. Plus, he was in the middle of a case, and at that time, his mind was more focused on the effects of hydrangea macrophylla than Molly’s most recent choice of companion.

He didn’t know why he felt so angry. Aside from Moriarty’s sick little game a little over two years ago now, Molly’s love life had never been much of his business. So why did he  _care_  so much now? He shouldn’t care.

John looked up from his meal, and straight at what Sherlock was now focused on.

"Wait a minute… Isn’t that…?"

"Yes, John. Yes it is," Sherlock muttered bitterly. He was acting so damn human. This was John’s job, to act human where he didn’t. So why did he have the utmost urge to go up to the man and just  _punch_  him?

It wouldn’t do. With little hesitation, he shot to his feet and barrelled out of the cafe and across the street, straight towards the man and woman. He could hear John hurriedly following on, apologising to the other patrons of the cafe. Sherlock however, continued walking as he moved straight towards the man and woman.

They stopped when they saw him.

"Oh my god!" The woman yelped. "Ain’t that…? Oh my god! Gary, that’s Sherlock Holmes!"

"Are you aware that your husband’s cheating on you?" Sherlock asked, his voice sharp.

"Sherlock!" John said, having finally caught up to him.

"What?"

"I repeat: are you aware that your husband’s cheating on you?"

"Sherlock!" John said again, and he turned to the man and woman. "I’m sorry, he’s under stress…"

"I’m not. I’m merely trying to show this woman that her husband is a manipulative coward."

"In the middle of the street?"

Sherlock shrugged by way of reply, to which John only sighed and rubbed at his temples. Sherlock stepped to the side slightly—he wasn’t in the mood for being punched.

"Answer my question," he said to the woman. "Are you aware that your husband is cheating on you?"

"Now, c’mon… This is ridiculous!" the man said, laughing nervously.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I highly doubt that,  _Gary_. Your wedding ring is dirty, but the rest of your jewellery is clean. I’ve seen that before, and the woman in question was a serial adulterer. What do you have to say to that?”

Gary laughed again as his wife rounded on him, her eyes piecing together the puzzle for her.

"You piece of shit Gary! You promised!"

"Well, what about you?! All those "meetings", and "conferences" you’re constantly going to!"

"I work in PR, you div! I need to go to meetings!"

"You barely let me leave the house! How can I cheat when I never bloody leave the house?!"

"When I’m at all those bloody meetings, apparently!"

Sherlock sighed and turned away from the now screaming couple and walked quickly down the street. John jogged after him.

"What the hell are you doing? You just ruined a marriage!"

Sherlock laughed, but continued walking. “Look properly John. Her wedding ring was just as dirty as his, but her necklace was practically shining. I’d wager that she admits to her own discretions in a matter of seconds.”

"Well, joke’s on you, you fat bastard!" the woman yelled, ripping the wedding ring on her finger. ‘Cos I’m cheating on you too!"

With that, she threw the ring squarely at her husband’s head and stormed down the street. She only stopped when she passed Sherlock.

"Guess I should say thank you. Been looking for a way to get rid of the bastard for months now. But you’re still an arse."

Quickly, she hailed a taxi and jumped inside.

John’s jaw had dropped a little.

"See?" Sherlock said, an amused smile on his face.

"You just ruined a marriage in broad daylight, and all you can do is smirk!"

"I didn’t just ruin a marriage John; I also provided a diversion."

"What?"

"The criminal clearly wasn’t going to enter the flat in clear daylight, now was he? But now, with everyone’s focus being on the live version of Jeremy Kyle over there, he had the perfect chance. I’d wager that the door is now unlocked."

Sherlock walked towards the flat, and sure enough, the door was unlocked, only open by by a crack. If they were lucky, the criminal would still be inside. John shook his head.

"No. There’s no way you could’ve worked that out. You did it because he was seeing Molly. Didn’t you?"

"Don’t be stupid, John."

* * *

Even after the case had been solved, Sherlock said nothing else about his “diversion”. He didn’t even mention it to Molly, who had come into the lab the very next day, as bright and as cheerful as ever.

As she worked, she confided to John about how Gary had rung her up in tears, admitting that he was married, but was now getting divorced and still hoped to see Molly in future. Much to John’s relief, Molly had hung up and deleted Gary’s number from her phone.

Sherlock had still said nothing at all about his influence over Gary’s sudden bout of honesty, pretending to be involved in his experiment, but John knew his friend. And although Molly hadn’t, John had noticed that when Molly had been relaying the events to him, Sherlock had given a sly smile when she admitted to deleting Gary’s number.

There was only one time before this that Sherlock had so harshly deduced one of Molly’s boyfriends. True, that boyfriend had turned out to be the most dangerous man they’d ever met, but at the time, Sherlock’s only motivator had clearly been one thing:

No-one hurts his pathologist.


	11. Potions Class. (Potterlock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from itsthatonetime on Tumblr, who requested a Sherlolly Potter!lock fic.
> 
> In this particular fic, all of the characters are in the sixth year.

Molly sighed as she glanced inside her Potions textbook. Mary was happily chopping ingredients beside her, already hard at work.

"Having trouble?"

"A little bit." Molly frowned. "Why does Professor Slughorn think we should be making this stuff anyway?"

Mary shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve given up trying to work out how his mind works. Now c’mon. Your potion’s barely shining.”

Molly sighed and continued her work. Maybe there wasn’t a reason for why Professor Slughorn had chosen to focus on love potions for this lesson. Maybe he was just trying to make things purposely difficult for them. He always did, especially around exam time.

All she had to do was just grit her teeth and get on with it.

* * *

"So, you’re not going to do _any_ work?" John asked, keeping one eye out for Professor Slughorn, who was currently parading around the classroom like he always did, examining students' potions and cheerfully telling them everything wrong with it. Sherlock stretched himself out in his chair and leaned forward onto the workbench, closing his eyes.

"No. It’s boring."

Unfortunately for Sherlock, Professor Slughorn was, at that precise moment, stopping to politely inform a student about her wrongful use of ingredients and just so happened to be in earshot. John quickly focused on his work, but if Sherlock had noticed Professor Slughorn, he didn’t show any sign of caring. Instead, he continued to doze.

He only woke when Slughorn gave a loud, boisterous laugh and when Sherlock glared at him, he merely laughed again.

"I’d advise you to actually do some work this term, Mr Holmes. No amount of money your parents provide the school with will help you pass exams!" he said happily, clearly thinking such a remark a joke before he moved off to converse with yet another student. John couldn’t help but snigger as Sherlock grumpily rose to his feet and began to make up the potion.

"Honestly, I could do this blindfold," he muttered, but John only raised an eyebrow.

"Whatever you say."

* * *

Molly sighed happily as she added the last ingredient. At the back of the room, she could see that Sherlock, with the stoniest expression she’d ever seen on him, was finally starting work. 

"Wow. Great work!" Mary said, smiling widely. Molly returned the sentiment and began to scribble in her notebook; but Mary wasn’t done yet, and as she added her last few ingredients and stirred the potion, she spoke.

"So… what do you smell?"

"What? I-I don’t know…"

"Don’t play fools with me! You know exactly what I’m talking about," Mary said, nudging Molly slightly.

Molly blushed as she struggled for an answer.

"What about you?" she said finally. "Surely you can smell something."

"Sure I can."

"Well, what are they?"

Mary gave a little smile and breathed in the scent of her potion. Her wide smile showed her pleasure at what she had found.

"Bread, freshly baked… pine… and aftershave," she finished, and she drew herself away from the cauldron. By her smile, Molly could easily guess that the aftershave Mary was thinking of was John’s. Mary suddenly nudged her again, nodding in encouragement. With a sigh, Molly took a deep sniff of her own potion. For a long time, she was quiet as a blend of scents wafted in front of her. It took some time for them to come together into a coherent whole, but when they did, they were so vibrant and so beautiful, it was almost like she could see them as well as smell them.

"So…?" Mary said, and Molly smiled at her, the memory of the scents still implanted in her memory.

"Well, there were poppies… and old books… and violin rosin."

"Ohh. Okay. Pretty sure there’s only one guy in Ravenclaw who plays violin, but if that’s what floats your boat…!"

Molly blushed slightly, but still poked Mary carefully in the sides.

"Says the girl who smells aftershave."

* * *

John took a deep sniff from his cauldron, and almost immediately, the scent of flowery perfume mixed in with the scents of dark chocolate and grass popped out at him. From beside him, he could hear Sherlock scoff.

"Oh, c’mon," John said, looking to his friend. "Everyone’s doing it, look."

It was true. Now that almost everyone in the class had made their potions, they were all crowded round their own cauldrons, giggling and gossiping about which scents they had all detected. So far, Sherlock had been the only one not to do so.

"Just because everyone’s doing it John, it doesn’t mean I have to as well."

"It’ll be fun! You just have to do it once."

"I don’t have to do it all, if I really wanted."

"Look, even Molly’s doing it," John said, pointing in the direction of their friends. For a long moment, Sherlock was silent as he stared at the two girls.

"Fine!" he hissed, and he leant forward, sniffing slightly. Again, he was silent, until eventually, he straightened himself up and turned his attention to his Potions textbook.

"C’mon, what’d you smell?"

Sherlock still didn’t look up from his textbook. “Lemon.”

John frowned. “Doesn’t… doesn’t Molly use lemon scented shampoo?” (Mary had often complained to him about Molly’s choice of shampoo, saying that it would stink out the girl’s dorms whenever she used it.)

In reply, Sherlock’s earlobes turned a bright pink. Silently, he lifted his Potions textbook closer to his face. John grinned.

"She does, doesn’t she?"

"Shut up John."


	12. In the Wee Small Hours. (TW: Child Loss)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon on Tumblr requested the prompt of Sherlolly and infant loss/SIDS. A prompt which broke my heart, if I'm honest.

The irony was, she had never really wanted children. They were sweet, sure, and she liked being godmother to the children of her friends, but she could never muster up the courage to want one of her own. It wasn’t because having kids would hurt her career; though it was because of her work. She had seen all sorts of bodies during her time in university and at St. Bart’s, but the ones that hit the hardest were always the ones that were too small to carry a wound that an adult might be able to survive.

So when that pregnancy test came up positive, she was almost frozen with shock. They had both been so careful. Yet there they were, the two blue lines that told her how much her life would change.

She prepared herself for the yelling that would come with telling him. He had confessed to her early on in their relationship that he didn’t want children. He gave no reason; just told her in his blunt, cold way that he had no capacity for fatherhood.

There were tears when she told him. And there was silence. But then there was talking; so much talking. For hours, they went back and forth in their decisions until the sun came up.

It was with the coming of the morning that they arrived at their decision. It was Sherlock who had helped her. “Clear your mind,” he’d said. “Delete the clutter, and give me your very first answer: do you want this child?”

She didn’t say yes outright, but even now, she could remember her words. “I want to try.”

Try they did. Sherlock researched every facet of pregnancy and parenthood he could. Molly went on maternity leave; switching forensics for pre-natal classes. With every month, her belly grew. To her surprise, she found it humbling, being pregnant; to know that she now had the responsibility of bringing life into the world was exciting, nerveracking and terrifying in equal parts.

Sherlock seemed to feel it too. Little by little, as their baby grew, his caseload lessened. The time he previously spent running around London would now be spent in 221b, looking after and tending to Molly. He even took over shopping duties.

The others too crowded round, all eager to help and offer their congratulations. Mrs Hudson regularly popped up to the flat to see how mother and child were doing. John and Mary visited regularly, often to see how Molly was coping with the expectant father, Sherlock. It was funny really; they had all expected him to react with the same eccentricity that he reacted to everything with, but he hadn’t. If anything, he’d mellowed. Now, he spent his days playing the violin or reading. He didn’t even feel the need to smoke. Knowing him, he had probably ‘deleted’ the urge just so he didn’t run the risk of hurting both Molly and his unborn child. John even went so far to tease him, calling him “a proper family man”.

The best times however, would be when they were on their own. There had been one evening when Molly was sat on the bed, propped up by a nest of pillows with a novel resting on her large, swollen belly as Sherlock worked on one of his many experiments in the kitchen. The time had ticked around to eight o’clock when the door quietly opened and Sherlock entered.

"Anything good?" she’d asked.

"Oh yes!" he replied as he changed into his pyjamas and sat down beside her. "Do you want me to tell you about them?"

Molly smiled and patted her belly. “Tell her.”

He had only been too happy to comply, and he snuggled down next to Molly, his low baritone whispering all sorts of complicated maths and science. At the sound of his voice, Molly soon drifted off, but Sherlock was still relaying what he’d discovered as he gently stroked at her warm belly with his fingertips.

The birth itself was long, and arduous, but with no complications. It was a girl, small and prone to crying as all babies were, but when Molly held her, she felt like her heart might burst. This baby… this dark-haired, brown-eyed  _human_  had come from her. She had brought this bright, wonderful baby into the world.

Neither she nor Sherlock could be parted from her. After a few days in the hospital, the three of them went back to 221b and began to settle into a new routine. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, it would be Sherlock who woke her and Molly who would sleep in, and every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, it would be Sherlock who slept and Molly who woke. Sundays however, were Molly’s favourite day, for it would be on Sunday that the two of them would wake and attend to their daughter before the three of them sat down to breakfast.

The odd thing was, they didn’t think to come up a name for her for the first few days. They were so content to just be with their daughter that giving her a name didn’t seem necessary. It was only when Mary and John visited to see her that they realised. Once again, much discussion was had, until finally, they settled on a name: Poppy Hooper-Holmes.

Once they had named her, she seemed even more real. No longer just their baby, but their child; their flesh and blood.

But the most marvellous things about her was that Molly got the chance to see Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, be a father. He wasn’t perfect—sometimes he would hold her wrong, or would talk to her like she was a fully grown adult and not a baby—but overall, he was wonderful. If it was possible, he seemed to play violin even more now; it seemed to be the only way to get Poppy off to sleep. And when she did fall asleep, he’d scoop her up into his arms and give her to Molly, allowing her to rock Poppy gently and sing to her sweet lullabies. Molly had even woken up one Wednesday morning to find Sherlock in the nursery (converted from John’s old bedroom), sat in the rocking chair with Poppy in his arms, gently humming.

"Beethoven?" Molly asked as she’d tiptoed into the room. Sherlock nodded, but continued to hum, softly patting Poppy’s back as he did so. Molly smiled and knelt beside them, watching. After a moment, she leant her head against Sherlock’s arm.

"I’m really happy we kept her."

Sherlock smiled at her and his eyes shone happily. “So am I.”

* * *

Maybe God hated her. Or perhaps this was recompense for something she’d done in the past. It couldn’t be fate. It couldn’t. It had to be a punishment. Fate only led to good things, didn’t it?

Another sob escaped her as she buried her hands in her hair, her body doubled over as she tried to stop the pain. Why did it hurt so, so much?  _You never wanted this baby_ , a voice sneered.  _No wonder this has happened. You didn’t look after it properly. You killed your baby._

"No, no, no!" she sobbed, trying to drown out the voice. But it persisted. She shook her head. "NO!"

The door to the nursery burst open, and Sherlock ran inside. Of course the first thing he saw was their child, their Poppy, frozen in death.

He would yell. Of course he would. He would blame her. He needed to blame her. Didn’t he? She, Miss Perfect Molly Hooper, was the one who’d given him hope, and now, after a total seven months of that hope, she was the one to take it away.

He was silent as he crouched down beside her and stroked her back, allowing her to cry. And even when he helped her stand and took her into the kitchen and sat her down, he was still silent. He only spoke when he rang the hospital. What he said she didn’t hear. It was just a dull reverberation against her eardrums.

She registered nothing. Not the arrival of the ambulance, not the weight of his hands on her shoulders as he helped her leave the flat, not the journey to the hospital; nothing.

For a long time, they waited for news, the corridor in which they sat cold and harsh. Cheap and tacky Christmas lights flickered on and off, annoying her. By the time the doctor came to see them, the crisp winter sun was rising and Molly never wanted to drink a cup of coffee again. He drew up a chair and told them everything; it had been sudden infant death, he said. There would still need to be a post-mortem, and there would probably be an investigation. It was the post-mortem that hurt most of all. They seemed such ordinary, mundane things before, but now… she could see the process happening in front of her eyes. The cutting of the scalpel, the removal of the tiny organs, the tests… She buried her face deep into her hands. God, but she wanted to cry. So why couldn’t she cry? Didn’t she love her daughter enough?  _Hadn’t_  she loved her daughter enough?

Or did she love her daughter too much?

Gradually, she realised that Sherlock’s arms had enveloped her waist, and softly, he kissed the tip of her shoulder. It was almost bizarre that someone like him, with such a calculating mind as his, should be so very warm and she so very cold. Instinctively, Molly curled up against him, burying her face in his chest as she cried.

For the first time, she registered that she was wearing his Belstaff. Then she registered something else.

"I’m in my pyjamas," she whispered. Sherlock almost laughed, but his own tears strangled it. Tenderly, he kissed the top of her head as he gently rocked her.

"I know. I know."

Everything else was silence as they sat together. The time for talking would be soon, but for now, as the morning was coming up, silence was what they needed. Comfort was the order of the day.


	13. The Blindfold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sundance201 on Tumblr requested "Molly planning a surprise for Sherlock, and actually pulling it off for once."

His latest case had led him abroad. Before, he would have been rather ambivalent about having to stay in another country, but now, knowing that he had something to come home to, that seemed to motivate him more. With the promise of being reunited with his Molly, his mind seemed to work faster, his thoughts were clearer. He had always assumed that love was a disadvantage, but somehow, she had shown him different.

He couldn’t wait to be reunited with her.

* * *

It was late afternoon when he and John arrived back in London. Out of thanks, Mycroft had sent a car to pick them up, along with a text on Sherlock’s phone:

_Well done on completing the case. M._

Simple, to the point. It was probably another root canal. Sherlock didn’t bother replying, but both he and John still accepted the use of the car.

John however, was supremely quiet, more focused on his phone than his surroundings. Unusual.

"I suppose it’s Mary texting you."

"Uh, yeah. Yeah. Just wants me to pick up a few things on the way home."

"How domestic of you."

John didn’t reply, his attention once again focused on his phone. Sherlock resolved to merely watch the scenery pass and think about the smile on Molly’s face when they saw one another again.

* * *

He first noticed that something was definitely unusual when they got to 221b and John followed him out of the car and into the hallway.

"John, what are you doing? You don’t live here anymore, remember?"

"Shut up, Sherlock," John hissed. His cheeks were almost crimson with embarrassment as he slowly reached into his pocket and bought out a long piece of dark velvet material.

"John?"

"Molly. She… she told me…" he tried, but his embarrassment prevented him from finishing his sentence. It was without another word that he reached up and blindfolded his friend, muttering several varying comments of both a disbelieving and derogatory nature as he did so. Sherlock forced back a laugh as he heard his friend hurry away and close the door behind him, presumably to reach the safety of his and Mary’s home. Turning, Sherlock felt through the air with his fingers, trying to find any clue to what Molly had planned.

"Molly?" he called, and he was met with a distant reply of "Up the stairs! Be careful!"

 _Be careful._  He scoffed inwardly, but smiled all the same, and slowly felt his way up the stairs and towards the flat.

On opening the door, he was met with one immediate thing: the smell of lemon scented candles. About 15? No. 20.

Hands touched at his coat. Her hands. Chuckling, he allowed her to remove his coat, and turned to say something. He was cut off however, by her lips pressing against his. God, but he’d missed her. He’d missed everything about her—especially her kisses, gentle but passionate as they were. Greedily, he deepened their kiss, but she slowly pulled away, teasing him in the most agonising way possible.

"I’m conducting an experiment."

"About what?"

"About how the other senses behave when one of them is cut off."

"Hm. It’s a good experiment."

She said nothing to this, but she instead took his hand and led him through the flat towards the… kitchen. They had moved forwards and then to the left. Yes, definitely the kitchen.

Carefully, she sat him down and the sounds of food being prepared filled his ears. He took a deep sniff. There were no scented candles around—wise decision—but what he could smell was strawberries. And blackberries. And chocolate; dark chocolate.

Then footsteps; hers. And a chair scraped across the floor towards him.

"Feeling hungry?"

"Ravenous," he replied, his tone almost gleeful and with the familiar delicate touch he had been craving so much for the last three weeks, she fed him a strawberry. With a slight groan, his lips closed over the juicy red fruit and when he bit into it, his mouth was flooded with fresh coolness. He swallowed thickly. More than ever, he wanted to see her face; see that glorious smile of hers as she teased him.

But still the blindfold remained and continued to do so as she carefully fed him an array of foods; some were fruit, some were fruit dipped in chocolate. Some were hot, some were cold. She even gave him wine, a fruity rich blend that slipped down his throat as easy as air. Whatever they were though, the thought of his Molly feeding them to him with her hair falling in loose curls around her shoulders and a smile on her lips was an image that would fuel his fantasies for weeks to come.

"Please Molly," he said eventually, "I beg you… just remove this damn blindfold!"

She merely giggled and pressed a finger to his lips.

"Patience, Mr Holmes. Patience."

Her fingers looped into his, and she laughed again as she helped to his feet.

 _Finally_ , he thought with relief. He didn’t know how much more of this teasing he (and his biology) could take.

* * *

He was met with the scent of lemon all over again, but unlike the first time, it wasn’t so pungent. If anything, it was comforting. With a gentle push, Molly sat him down on the edge of the bed.

It was too much. He needed her. Clumsily, he reached out, his hands fumbling for her in the dark. She laughed lightly and took his wrists, guiding them to her waist. Taking a breath, he felt the cool material underneath his palms. It was silk, newly bought. Obviously the first trip out for this choice of outfit (a fact which pleased him somewhat).

His mind was pulled from its deductions when she leant forwards, threading her fingers through his curls.

"Welcome home," she murmured, her lips close to his ear and her breath warm on his cheek. Deftly, her fingers untied the knot and drew away the blindfold.

Now he realised why the blindfold was needed. Dressed in a pair of silken pyjama shorts and vest, she was stunning. Delectable. Temptation in human form.

If he hadn’t had that blindfold, they wouldn’t have lasted five minutes.

Resting his hands on her hips, he smiled up at her. “Congratulations Molly. You truly have surprised me. But I will say, there is one problem with this surprise of yours.”

Confused, her smile dropped a little. “What?”

"You’re still wearing those pyjamas."


	14. The Study of Synonyms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous request on Tumblr of "Sherlock becomes incredibly overprotective when Molly gets pregnant."

“The victim was found on the boat, soon after the group had been to see some blue whales—”

“No.”

“Sorry?”

Molly sighed and smiled apologetically at Lestrade as she rubbed her swollen pregnant belly. “Sherlock’s new rule. You can’t mention any large animals around me.”

“Okay… why?!”

“Pregnant women tend to suffer from periodic mood swings,” Sherlock said swiftly, his attention more focused on his phone as he tapped out a text. “The rule helps Molly’s emotions stabilise more easily.”

 _“It doesn’t,”_  Molly mouthed behind his back.

Lestrade sighed and rubbed at his forehead.

“Okay. The group came back from seeing some large fish—”

“No.”

“Big fish?”

“No.”

“Uh… Mammals of an massive size?”

“Absolutely not. Molly is a mammal and as you can see, massive.”

“Thanks Sherlock,” Molly said drily. “You’re a dear.”

Sherlock beamed at her. “You’re welcome.”

Lestrade meanwhile, was coming to the realisation that the word “big” had an awful lot of synonyms; or at least according to Sherlock it did. After a number of tries (eleven to be exact), he threw his hands into air with frustration.

“They were seeing bloody  _whales_  Sherlock, and they came back to the hotel to find one of their group strangled!”

Silence, then… “Still no.”

John sighed and finally folded away his newspaper. After sharing a quick look of “I know” with Molly, he looked to Sherlock.

“The group returned from seeing cetaceans in the Pacific Ocean, and once at the hotel, they discovered the body of a woman who was seen on the boat at the same time of the murder. Happy now?”

Sherlock’s quirked a little into a smile and he looked to Lestrade and John. “Oh! Well. You could’ve just said.”

With that, he was gone from 221b, only stopping to kiss Molly on the forehead as he went. Lestrade watched him leave with a degree of both frustration and amusement on his face.

“Is he always like that?”

John laughed, putting on his coat. “You should’ve seen him when Molly first revealed she was pregnant.”

“You’d have thought I was made of crystal cut glass, the way he went on.”

“And now?”

Molly glowered a little in reply and struggled to her feet. “Anyway. If you don’t mind gentlemen, I have to pee. Oh, and make sure to mention any single large animal you can think of whilst he’s working.”

“Why?” Lestrade asked with his eyebrows knitted together into a frown. Molly grinned knowingly.

“No reason.”


	15. Strawberries and Chocolate.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon on Tumblr requested the following: "John and Mary find out about Sherlock and Molly at an…ahem…inopportune time."

John smiled and kissed gently at Mary’s neck.

"Easy tiger," Mary said with a light laugh, but she kissed John on the lips all the same and together, they made their way up the steps of 221b, the two of them swaying a little from the alcohol they had consumed.

"Well, I don’t know about you, but I thought that this was a very good evening," John said with a grin and Mary nodded in reply.

"So, you going to let us in?"

John laughed. “Of course! Sherlock said he was going out, so we’ll have the flat to ourselves. Once I… find my keys that is…”

For a few moments, he searched inside his pockets before he finally extracted his keys.

It was on unlocking the door that he found that the flat was completely dark; in fact, the only light available was that streaming through the window. Carefully, John stumbled through the darkness, his hands reaching out as a (somewhat clumsy) guide. Mary followed on, her hands on his shoulders.

There were sounds, John could figure that much out. They were indistinguishable, and in his drunken state of mind, John put it down to a draft, continuing on towards the kitchen.

"John?" Mary whispered, and without thinking, he turned and his knee bumped with the sharp corner of the coffee table, causing him to stumble and…

Hands came into contact with skin. Warm, sweaty skin.

"AAARGH!" John yelled, doubling back and crashing into Mary. A loud squeak entered the fray and there was the sound of scrabbling.

For a long time afterwards, there was silence. Then a giggle.

And it hadn’t come from Mary.

"What the hell…?"

"John," Sherlock’s voice said quickly. "I can explain…"

Now his eyes were getting accustomed to the gloom, he could see that two silhouettes were stood opposite him: one was lithe and tall, and the other was petite.

"We need light…" Mary said with a sigh.

Sherlock practically sprinted forward. “No! No, no…”

It was too late. The lights flashed on, and both John and Mary gaped. Sherlock immediately came to a stop opposite him, and John could now see that his friend and flatmate was nude except for a cushion. Behind him stood Molly, wearing nothing but Sherlock’s blue dressing gown. On the ground, there sat a bowl of melted chocolate and strawberries. Alongside that, there was a bottle of champagne and two empty glasses.

And on Sherlock’s shoulders, there was smears of that same chocolate, whilst Molly’s lips and fingers were covered in the bright red colour of strawberry juice.

Sherlock grew pink as both John and Mary worked out exactly what they had stumbled upon.

"Yes. Well, um. Yes. As you can see, Molly and I… we’ve begun a relationship."

Mary nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah.”

Sherlock’s back stiffened slightly and he grabbed Molly’s hand, nodding quickly at both Mary and John. “Goodnight John.”

With that, he dragged Molly towards his bedroom.

Only a moment passed before Mary collapsed into giggles, burying her head in John’s chest. He considered telling her to stop, but soon, he found himself quickly overcome with giggles himself.

"Breakfast is going to be… awkward."

Mary nodded, wiping her eyes as she calmed from her bout of laughter. “I doubt either Molly or Sherlock will be eating strawberries for some time.”

John smirked. “Well, not in our presence at least.”


	16. Forgotten Birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt on Tumblr of "birthday gift".

Of course she had to work on her birthday. And of course it would be on her birthday that the amount of work she had seemed to triple overnight.

Sherlock bursting into the lab unannounced didn’t help either, and as he made himself at home, John scooted over to Molly, his smile apologetic.

"Sorry," he said quietly. "Sherlock made a breakthrough last night in the Wilson case. He insisted we come into the lab as soon as possible."

Molly tried a smile. “It’s fine. I guess it’s just one of those days where things keep happening, you know? It always happens when I make plans.”

"Plans?"

"People often have plans on their birthday, don’t they?"

John’s smile fell a little. “Oh, I’m sorry. Working on your birthday. I’ve been there.”

"Like I said, it’s fine."

"Yeah. Anyway, Sherlock never remembers those kind of things. I mean, he got halfway through his own birthday last year and didn’t know until I asked him!" John giggled at this, and Molly couldn’t help but join in. It sounded very Sherlock for him to forget his own birthday.

The man in question snapped his head up, glaring at the two of them. “I’m trying to work.”

"Sorry Sherlock," John said quickly and Sherlock grunted slightly in reply as he resumed his work. Molly sighed and continued with the paperwork in front of her. Not having anything to do, John muttered something about needing breakfast and left for the cafeteria.

For a long time, neither Molly nor Sherlock said anything, with the both of them being deeply engrossed in their respective tasks.

"It’s your birthday," Sherlock said suddenly before looking at Molly. "Isn’t it?"

Molly merely nodded, still focused on her paperwork. It was after a moment that she heard the scraping of a stool, scurrying footsteps and a door closing.  _Probably thought of something to do with the case_ , Molly thought and she quietly continued writing.

Approximately ten minutes later, she heard the door swing open again and a steaming cup of coffee was placed beside her. Finally, she looked up to find Sherlock standing beside her, a second cup of coffee in his hands.

"I took a guess at milky, no sugar. Was I right?"

Molly frowned a little, though she still picked up the coffee and sipped it. It could’ve done with a little more stirring, but overall, it tasted nice and provided her with a new boost of energy.

Sherlock was still looking at her. “Well, was I?”

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, it’s fine. Just how I like it," Molly said with a smile. Sherlock returned it and sat down again.

"Good."

It took another ten minutes before Molly realised what the coffee was for: he was making up for forgetting her birthday.

She smiled wider. Sherlock was most definitely not the most romantic of people she’d ever dated, but his attempts to be were more than enough.

Quietly, she stood and moved towards him, kissing him lightly on the cheek. Sherlock’s only reply was to turn his head and catch her on the mouth in a quick, loving kiss before resting his forehead against hers.

"Happy birthday, Miss Hooper."

"Thank you, Mr Holmes."


	17. The Case of the Missing Slippers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by ladysnarker on Tumblr with the prompt of "Molly has lost her slippers. London's greatest detective is on the case."

Molly Hooper had cold feet. Not the metaphorical kind of cold feet used in eons of soap dramas, but feet that she could feel turning blue from the draft that whistled through Baker Street during winter.

It didn’t help that she had a great big stinking cold either.

Sherlock Holmes, meanwhile, was bored. (Luckily, the wall hadn’t yet felt the brunt of his boredom.) He’d just wrapped up a high-profile case featuring some high-ranking government official in America, and so his brain was firing on all cylinders. Unhappily for both his boredom and Molly’s peace of mind, the criminal world was not. For the last few days, nothing had come in.

Molly sighed and buried her feet underneath the blanket, and watched as her boyfriend paced up and down the living room, whining. Yes, the great consulting detective and actual five year old was whining.

"Nothing! I need a case! And everyone’s just so peaceful, all getting on with each other and being all la-di-da-di-da lovely! It’s hateful!  _Hateful!_ ”

Molly groaned inwardly and coughed again. "Sherlock…" 

She’d do anything for her slippers back. Two hours ago she’d asked him to find her slippers for her, and for two hours, Sherlock had been ranting and raving about the lack of cases. Molly shivered. Her feet were practically ice blocks by now.

Sherlock however, continued to pace, more focused on his own problem. 

"The mind needs sustenance! I need to keep working!"

"He can find a senator’s kid, but he can’t find my slippers…" Molly murmured.

Blue eyes loomed up in front of her.

"What the hell?!" she yelped. Sherlock tilted his head.

"Slippers. You said something about slippers. They’ve been missing for a few hours now, correct?"

Even though this cold of hers had severely reduced her sense of humour for the last couple of days, Molly had to bite on the blanket to stop herself from laughing. Sherlock however, had no time for her giggles. He whipped around and with his body bent over like he was investigating a crime scene, he clambered around the furniture, searching. Whether he was teasing her, she didn’t know. She merely enjoyed the sight of watching Sherlock Holmes eagerly search for her slippers.

It took him longer than she thought it would. And when he did deign to reappear beside her, he held in one hand a pair of slippers and in the other, a yowling, rather miffed Toby.

"What happened?"

"Toby had taken possession of your slippers. I found them, but Toby was reluctant to give up his newly acquired possession."

Toby gave out another loud yowl, seemingly to agree with the detective. Molly smiled and slowly moved off the sofa and towards Sherlock. Taking her slippers from him, she shoved them onto her feet and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

"Thank you Mr Holmes. Now, may I have my cat back?"

"Well… I wanted to—"

"No, Sherlock, you’re not doing another experiment on him."

"He stole your slippers!"

"That’s no excuse. You turned him green last time!"

If cats could’ve shuddered, Toby did.

"That was temporary!" Sherlock said, pouting a little.

"Temporary it might have been, but you’re still not experimenting on him," Molly said as she scooped Toby into her arms.

"Fine," Sherlock said, but Molly knew an upcoming sulk when she saw one. She could hear the awful screech of the violin playing now. He always played deliberately badly when he didn’t get his way.

"I’m sure a case will come up soon," she said, trying to placate him. It was no use, for Sherlock had already found his violin and was preparing his bow.

Molly sighed and sat down on the sofa as the shriek of the violin rang throughout the flat. 

If there was one thing that was evident, it was that Sherlock Holmes really, _really_  needed a case.

So when, five minutes later, there was a knock on the door and a sweaty man shouting about murder burst into the flat, Molly was secretly relieved.

So was Toby. He never suited being green.


	18. I Don't Count.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by iamazonian on Tumblr, who gave the prompt of "Sherlock is back from the dead, and everything is back to normal. However, he hasn't gone to Molly at all since he returned, and Molly returns to the shadows, content that he is happy with John and Mrs. Hudson and Greg. She believes he didn't actually mean the "you do count" speech, especially now that his mission is over, but Sherlock is actually only being afraid of what he feels for her."

His three years were up; the three years he’d spent chasing down Moriarty’s network and keeping his friends safe—they were now gone, nothing more than a memory in Molly’s mind.

He hadn’t lived with her during that time; but he had occasionally used her sofa when he needed somewhere to sleep. Sometimes he would even stay behind the morning after, and talk over his progress with her. Sometimes she would find him looking at her with a degree of concentration and intensity that she hadn’t ever seen, not even when he was delved deep inside his thoughts on a case. It was during those times that she allowed herself to believe that he really had meant what he’d told her, that night in the lab.

He soon disproved that with his return. One by one, he reunited with John, then Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and finally, Mary (who—according to John—had given as good as she could against Sherlock, and in doing so, had secured the great detective’s approval).

Molly knew that they were his friends; but her? Well, she was just the girl in the morgue, the one he smiled at only when he needed something. He didn’t feel anything for her—of course he didn’t. She knew that those smiles were only temporary, erased from his lips whenever she turned away from him. She knew that he only said what people—what she—wanted to hear.

Most of all, she knew that Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective, was a liar.

And for a while, she’d believed every word. But now it was time for Molly Hooper to go back into the shadows.

The weeks passed by as Molly fitted back into her old life. She would still occasionally glance at her sofa in the morning, but that was habit. And anyway, it was always empty. What she was hoping for, she didn’t really know.

That evening, she was in the locker room so she could change for a colleague’s retirement party. It wasn’t one she was looking forward to; not that she ever really looked forward to parties. She didn’t have a good past record with them anyway.

With a sigh, she twisted her hair around her shoulder and fiddled with the buttons of her lab coat.

"I did mean it."

With a jump, she turned. Blue eyes stared down at her, pupils wide.

"Wh-what?"

Sherlock stepped forward.

"I am sorry, Molly. You  _do_  count.”

Molly shook her head, and she couldn’t help but smile a little. “No, I don’t.”

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, as if trying to work her out. Molly continued. “John counts. Mrs Hudson counts. Lestrade counts.”

"Why do you think that?"

"Because for three years, I let you sleep on my sofa, and hid you when Moran got too close. And you’ve never even said ‘thank you’. I mean, I’m not asking for some grand gesture here. I’m just asking for some acknowledgement."

Sherlock’s lips pressed against her, and to her surprise, she found herself replying in kind, falling into his embrace. Gently, he pulled away and tipped his forehead against hers.

"That night in the lab. I meant every word, Molly Hooper. And you will always count. You counted before I knew it."

"Then why didn’t you tell me?"

"Fight or flight. I have always said that love—sentiment—is a distraction, nothing more than a chemical defect. And then you came along."

He didn’t have to say anything else. She knew. Everything he wanted to say was within those shining blue eyes of his. What he felt went against everything he believed. And a man like him… so logical, so fixed—of course it would be hard for him to admit to something as complicated, as undefinable and as maddening as love.

For a long time, she was silent. She had gone over and over this scenario many times in her head, but she could never have imagined the intensity with which he stared at her now, nor could she have imagined the sincerity with which he spoke his words.

It was going to take a leap of faith to let herself fall in love with Sherlock Holmes all over again.

But the greatest thing was that she was  _ready_  to take that leap, and she wanted to take that leap.

So she did.


	19. Disney!Lock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by artbylexie's genius and feels-inducing Disney!lock artwork, I edited together a screencap picspam of what it would be like if Sherlolly played out in a Disney movie, with the movie in question being 101 Dalmatians.

**Cast:**

Roger - Sherlock Holmes

Anita - Molly Hooper

Nanny - Mrs Hudson

Pongo - John Watson

Perdita - Mary Morstan


	20. Sherlock Holmes: Wedding Planner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt provided by morbidmegz on Tumblr, who asked for a fic where Sherlock discovers Molly's wedding planning book and plans it accordingly.

Sherlock paced up and down the length of the living room. No case to pursue, and no Molly. It all made for a very dull afternoon.

He could read. No. He’d read every book already.

Perhaps he could play? No. He’d played already once today.

With a sigh, he jumped into his armchair and was promptly hit on the head by something small and hard. Sherlock rubbed at his head, looking around for the object which had so rudely interrupted his boredom. He found it on the floor, behind the armchair.

It was a notebook, small and hard-backed. The spine was barely cracked, indicating only recent use. Perhaps about three months? Yes, three months. Curious, he flicked through it. Images of dresses, cakes and bouquets flashed in front of his eyes. He turned back to the first page, and found only a title (“Wedding Plan”) and a date; 26th February. The very day she had accepted Sherlock’s marriage proposal. Sherlock grinned and carefully read through the rest of the notebook.

It made for a very interesting read.

* * *

The last month had been… odd, to say the least. For one thing, Sherlock had been accepting less cases and had been spending more time at 221b, hidden away in his laboratory. When he did deign to venture outside its parameters, he would kiss Molly and shower her with affection that wasn’t really needed.

It was perplexing, and both worrying. And after about three weeks, Molly decided to do something about it. Using bringing him a cup of coffee as an excuse, she trudged upstairs to his laboratory and knocked on the door. On the second knock, it swung open.

"Molly!"

"Sherlock. What are you doing in here?"

Sherlock shrugged, leaning against the door frame. “Nothing important. Just an experiment into the effects of antivenin against rattlesnake venom.”

"I thought you did that experiment last week…?" Molly said, narrowing her eyes a little.

"Oh, well. It needed a second look. Thank you for the coffee by the way. See you later," Sherlock added, taking the coffee from Molly and kissing her on the cheek before he closed the door.

Molly frowned, staying where she was. Yes. Very… odd.

* * *

She woke up the next day to find that her partner of five years had disappeared from 221b. In his place, there was a note lying on his pillow along with a small pink rose bud. Sitting up, Molly unfolded the note and scanned it.

_Sorry for leaving you so early today. Everything will make sense soon, I promise. Sherlock._

_(P.S. There should be a car pulling up outside right about now. I’d advise you pack an overnight bag and get dressed. The driver already knows where to go.)_

Molly sighed, but let out a small smile all the same.

That was when the thought came to her.  _Perhaps he found it_ , a voice warned her. But why would that be a bad thing? They’d been engaged for three months now, and had been together for five years. For him to find her wedding notebook and get cold feet as a result seemed highly unlikely.

It was best to check anyway; just in case. So Molly left the bedroom and ventured into the living room.

Sure enough, her wedding notebook was there on the shelf, tidily organised amongst the other books. That was a big clue, considering it had previously been tucked onto the top of the bookshelf (ironically, to keep it away from prying eyes). Molly took it from the shelves and opened it to find not just her own scruffy scribbles, but Sherlock’s looped handwriting against various items, noting down prices and delivery times and dates. Molly laughed to herself and put the notebook back.

After all, there was a car waiting for her. And she needed to pack.

* * *

The driver of the car said nothing to her, but calmly took her bag from her and opened the passenger door. Molly slid inside and appraised the environment with an approving smile. Clearly, Sherlock had enlisted his brother’s help for this part. Still saying nothing, the driver got into the car and pulled away.

The drive lasted about an hour, and Molly grinned when the car turned into a driveway that was all too familiar to her. It was the house she’d grown up in, a small cottage on the very leafy, very beautiful outskirts of London. The car came to a stop just outside the house, and Molly stepped out to find her mother waiting on the doorstep. On seeing her daughter, she grinned and clapped her hands, running forward to embrace her in a tight hug.

"Hello sweetheart! How was the journey?"

"Fine enough, considering you know, London traffic and everything," Molly said as the driver got out her overnight bag and entered inside the house.

"Mum…"

"Yes dear?"

"Do you know what else Sherlock’s got planned?"

"Honestly? I have no clue what’s happening next. All that happened was that your brothers and sister turned up this morning holding wedding invitations—gorgeous design by the way—and a letter came through the post explaining that I needed to be waiting for you at 2 o’clock prompt. And here you are!"

Molly nodded and finally entered inside the house to find a stream of waiters and cooks milling about, each of them chatting happily as they went about their business. Molly shot a look at her mother, who merely shrugged and then laughed, clasping her daughter’s shoulder.

"C’mon, let’s get you upstairs!"

Once there, Molly found that she was to be getting dressed in the master bedroom, which had—for the occasion—been cleared of any clutter and instead filled with pale pink roses. A team of make-up artists and hairdressers greeted her with warm smiles, but Molly didn’t pay much attention to them. Her focus was instead on the mannequin in the corner; a mannequin which displayed an ivory coloured wedding dress that was designed in the Art Deco style of the 1930s, with little lace cap sleeves and a long flowing gown.

She had to sit down. He’d actually got it—she didn’t think it possible, but he’d actually got it. By some miracle, here it was: her dream wedding dress. It had been her grandmother’s, back in the day, and Molly had always held out hope that she would get to use for her own wedding day, but that hope been (supposedly) dashed when her grandmother died and her possessions were put into storage. Her mother sat down beside her, smiling widely as she gently rubbed Molly’s back.

"I know. Your grandmother would’ve wanted you to have it."

"Jesus Christ… I never thought he’d actually get it!"

"Well then. Seems you’ve got a keeper then, if he made that much effort to get it for you."

Molly grinned. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

* * *

The day only got better after that. It seemed that everything she’d written down in that notebook had been provided for; even down to the food. Molly sat at the dressing table as her sister—who had appeared soon after Molly arrived—related the story to her.

"It was a couple of weeks back," she said as she fiddled with the flower in her hair. "I was just getting ready for work, y’know, as you do, when this envelope got shoved through the postbox. Oh, let me tell you Molls, the invitation was gorgeous. All gold lettering and ivory… urgh, you could’ve framed it!"

"Seems too good to be true," Molly said, amused.

"I know right? I actually had to ring to make sure that this wasn’t just some horrible prank, but no, Sherlock reassured me saying the wedding was going ahead but there was just one condition: I couldn’t tell you."

Molly chuckled, just as the doors opened and in tumbled her three brothers: Joe, Jake and Lionel. All of them were wearing suits, and all of them looked very dapper. A far cry from their usual fare of baggy shirts, khaki shorts and sandals with socks. Lionel was the first one to greet her, scooping her up into a huge bear hug. One of the make-up artists let out a small squeak of concern, but Molly waved a dismissive hand and smiled up at her brothers.

"Hello you lot," she beamed.

"I guess Chrissie’s already told you all about how we got roped into this thing."

"This thing? I think you’ll find that this is your sister’s wedding day!"

Joe laughed heartily. “Relax Mum—Molls knows we’re just joking. Don’t you?”

"When do you ever not joke?" Molly said, to which the three boys laughed.

"Yeah well," Jake said, tapping Molly on the shoulder. "We’d best be off. Apparently, we’re all your best men!"

"Brides don’t have best men."

"Yeah, well, according to your Sherlock they do."

Molly sighed, but waved them away all the same, telling them not to get too drunk before the ceremony started. She then turned back to her sister and mother, smiling.

"Anyway. Anything else I should know before I make my grand entrance?"

Her mother and her sister exchanged a knowing look, and it was her sister who stood, bringing a small chain necklace from her purse.

"Yeah. Me and Mum got this for you. Soon after you and Sherlock announced your engagement," she added and she pressed the necklace into Molly’s palm. She turned it over to find that a small cameo pendant was attached to the chain, and the portrait inside was that of her father. Molly smiled and looked to both her sister and mother.

"Just thought you might like it," her sister mumbled. Molly pulled her into a hug, still smiling.

"It’s great. Believe me. Thank you."

* * *

Outside, the guests had already taken their places when Molly exited onto the garden. If anything, the garden was even more beautifully decorated than the inside. Molly grinned and gripped tighter onto her bouquet as she linked arms with her mother and began the slow walk down the aisle. Music began to play—to her surprise, it wasn’t the Wedding March, but instead a piece by Mozart;  _Violin Sonata in G_ , to be precise.

Sherlock, ever the traditionalist, was facing the priest. Beside him was John, who gave a quick glance behind him. He grinned at Molly and gave her a mock salute before turning back around. On the other side, there were her brothers. Lionel and Jake were facing straight ahead, but Joe was shifting his weight from foot to foot. It was obvious why; he had always been so protective over Molly, especially after the death of their father. Today was bound to make him nervous.

Molly meanwhile, literally had to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. It was all so perfect, and so carefully organised, it seemed like what was in her mind had bled out into reality.

Eventually, she and her mother came to a stop. Her mother smiled at her, nodded and stepped back. Taking a breath, Molly turned and looked to her fiancée.

That was how she knew it wasn’t a dream. The Sherlock in her dream didn’t appear so pleased with himself. That look however was quickly wiped from his face when he saw her. Instead, his eyes lit up happily and his grin widened to such an extent, it could’ve rivalled the Cheshire Cat’s.

"You cheeky bugger," she murmured, leaning close to him and giving him a peck on the cheek. Sherlock chuckled slightly.

"I presume then, Miss Hooper, that you’re ready to be married?"

Again, Molly smiled and she gently entwined her fingers with his.

"Just say the word, Mr Holmes."


	21. Trimesters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt of "Sherlolly pregnancy timeline".

**_Trimester one_ **

For a consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes isn’t great at picking up on the most obvious clues. (There’s always something, after all.) So when those two blue lines appear on the fifth pregnancy test, she knows. It’s just a short matter of time before the great Sherlock Holmes picks up on it. So she doesn’t bother telling him, not for a bit anyway.

It’s a Wednesday evening when he finally figures it out. He’s lying stretched out of the sofa, eyes closed as he sifts his mind palace for a case. Molly’s curled up in his chair, with Toby purring lightly against her chest.

Sherlock’s eyes snap open. “You’re pregnant.”

Molly blinks, then laughs.

"I thought you were thinking about the case!"

"Oh, that’s barely a five. Easy. You on the other hand, Miss Hooper…" he says, moving towards her. His gaze is intense, but playful. Molly laughs and kisses him.

"I’m about to get a lot more difficult, Sherlock. So try to be good.”

* * *

**_Trimester two_ **

Although having a baby is exciting, pregnancy is not. The fatigue and nausea have thankfully and finally disappeared, but her biology’s not done yet. Every bit of her aches, and it doesn’t help that for the last 24 weeks, Sherlock Holmes has insisted on keeping a “medical log” (his term, not hers) about every little thing that happens to her, and Molly Hooper does not go in for daily measurements and questions.

"Sherlock!" she snaps, irritated as Sherlock works the blood pressure monitor. (She doesn’t know where he got it from either—probably Mycroft.)

"You’re consistent. That’s good," he mutters, lost in his thoughts. Molly sighs and listens to him rabbit on with his deductions as he jots numbers down in his notebook. It’s sweet that he’s so concerned, and she must admit that his constant vigilance over her has helped to allay some fears of hers. But right now, she wants to punch him one.

She doesn’t. Instead, she grabs his shoulders and makes him look at her.

"Sherlock, please. I’m trying to sleep here. Save the measurements and questions for later."

Sherlock pouts. “I’ve got to keep a consistent record Molly. Any sudden increase in your blood pressure could be a sign of preeclampsia.”

Molly sighs, rubbing at her temples. “I have _got_ to keep you away from those pregnancy books.”

* * *

**_Trimester three_ **

She’s now the size of a whale, and waddling. Sherlock has—thinking it helpful—banned any mention of penguins, elephants or any other large animal around her, and his caseload has remarkably lessened now.

Now, he spends much of his time lying beside Molly in bed, softly whispering in that familiar baritone of his to her enlarged belly. Of course, Sherlock Holmes is not like most fathers—instead of baby talk, he instead talks at length about the progression of the baby’s biology. It’s sweet, in a weird Sherlock Holmes type of way, and Molly loves him all the more for it.

The eventual birth itself is long, but without complications; and after 9 hours, a healthy, 8lb 4oz baby boy is born. Together, they spend every waking moment that they can with their child. It’s the first time in 9 months that Molly has ever seen Sherlock speechless.

It’s fairly early in the morning when they get around to discussing names. The ward is quiet, but Sherlock is still awake and still by Molly’s side. The names that get thrown around vary from the traditional to the strange.

"How about… Charlie?" Molly suggests finally. Sherlock pauses for a second, considering the name.

"It… It was my father’s name," she says, and that’s when Sherlock smiles and presses his lips to her forehead.

"Charlie it is then."


	22. Just Too Little, Too Late. (Genderswap)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genderswap Sherlock/Molly. Not inspired by any prompt.

It’s midnight when she wakes. He’s still awake, looking at nothing but his switched off television. (The remote was lost ages ago.) It’s almost a relief then when she stirs, pulling herself up from the sofa. She smiles down at him, ever the beautiful angel she’s always been.

It strikes him that he’s now looking at a dead woman. No longer the great detective she once was, but now just an ordinary human, claims of fraud stamped all over her name. He swallows slightly and tries a smile. She doesn’t even acknowledge him, her eyes blank as she stares ahead of her. Her knees are tucked under her chin.

"Have a good sleep?"

"I wasn’t sleeping," she says automatically. "My body was merely releasing the after-effects of the sleeping agent you provided me with."

She’s resetting to default now. And it hurts deep inside his chest, to see this perfect woman so broken and so frail. She shivers suddenly, and her gaze finally locks onto his. Almost instinctively, his breath catches. Even with reddened eyes and tear-stained cheeks, her beauty is unparalleled.

He quickly shakes the thought from his head. She has lost her life today; now is not the time for admiration or declarations.

"What do you need?" he asks eventually, and she smiles with some form of ironic amusement, her fingers looping around her long curls. She always does that when she’s nervous; that, or sad.

"I’m cold," she says and he nods once before he clambers to his feet and removes his sweatshirt, handing it over. At first, she doesn’t take it.

"I’ll be fine," he says, answering her as yet unasked question. "I’ve got quite a warm body heat really."

This time, she cracks another, smaller smile and takes it from him. It slides easily over her head and she’s now swathed in its bright orange material.

He’s thought about that image many a time during the last few years, but now, it seems wrong. Uncomfortable.

"I’ll get you a blanket," he mumbles, moving towards his bedroom. Her fingers catch his wrist, stopping him.

"It’s okay," she says, but her reassuring smile doesn’t stick. When he steps back, she lets his wrist fall from her grip.

"I’ll get you a blanket," he repeats, and he’s gone before she can make any more protests. He returns within a matter of seconds, a thick black blanket folded over his arms. It’s with a smile that he puts it around her shoulders. She thanks him, and he can feel her gaze follow his movements as he sinks into the sofa, sighing.

It feels like an eternity as the two of them struggle to make it past even the most basic small talk.

"Work’s going to be difficult," he says, and only realises the impact of the statement a split second after it’s come out of his mouth. The apologies soon follow, gushing out like some kind of flood.

She stops it by taking hold of his lips with hers. Almost all of his breath washes away, caught in the shock that she, the angel he’s admired from afar for so long, has _chosen_ to embrace him.

It’s brief, but the memory of it is eternal. She pulls away from him and rests her forehead against his, her hands lightly touching at his neck and collar bones.

"Thank you," she says, her voice trembling. Although his heart feels like it’s on the verge of exploding, he doesn’t show it. After all, now is not the time for declarations.

He knows why she’s kissed him, of course. They both know. It’s nothing more than a gesture; a thank you for what he’s helped her achieve.

She pulls him into a hug, clutching tightly at his shoulders. It’s both pleasing and heartbreaking for him to realise that their bodies fit exactly together; like two pieces of a puzzle. Ever so slightly, he lets out a soft breath and buries his head against her neck, taking in everything about her he can in this one moment.

For she won’t stay. It’s that fact that hurts more deeply than anything.

"You do count," she whispers against his ear, gently stroking at his messy mop of hair. His laughter catches in his throat and he merely smiles. Yes, he may count; but he doesn’t count enough. Not at the moment, anyhow.

Perhaps there will be one day when she’ll be able to love like he loves; but for now, she has to leave. He can’t make her stay. It would be selfish for him to even try.

"Wait for me?" she says quietly. He buries his face closer to her neck, and briefly presses his lips against her warm skin.

"You know I can’t promise anything."

"I do."

They stay in the embrace. Yes, there may be some day when her heart will be open enough to allow him inside, but today isn’t the day.

There’s so many things that could happen. Maybe he will wait for her. Maybe he’ll meet someone else. Or maybe, just maybe, the day that they’ve both waited for will come. Maybe she will love him. Maybe she _does_.

He finally lets go of her, and it strikes him how small she looks, wrapped in that blanket. She hugs herself tightly, looking out of the window.

There’s more silence, and just for something do, he stands up and leaves for his kitchen to make tea. She mumbles a small “no” to his offer of a drink as she continues to watch out of the window.

When he returns this time, he finds nothing but a folded up blanket on the sofa. His lips tingle with the memory of her kiss as he picks it up and packs it away into his airing cupboard.

Now he knows what the pain in his chest is. And it’s not something that will go away any time soon.

* * *

Face disguised by the hood of the sweater he gave her, she walks quickly down the rainy street, her skin turning cold against the wind.

Carelessly, she wipes at her nose with its sleeve as she walks. It’s almost amusing that she can still smell him against the thick material.

A sleek saloon slowly pulls up beside her, but she continues walking. The car follows.

Through the rain, she hears her phone beep. She checks it.

_You’ll catch cold. M_

Why she expected it to be anyone else, she doesn’t know. (Well, she does, but she’s not going to admit it—not for a long while yet.) She slides inside the vehicle. She expects to be met with that familiar detached smile. It’s almost refreshing to see how wrong she is. If her sister displays anything, it’s concern. Rare for her.

"I said before."

"I know you did," she says, almost sullenly as she curls up against the leather seat. Almost subconsciously, her fingers rub against the nape of her neck.

There’s a pain, deep inside her chest. She knows immediately what it is.

It’s a pain that’s incurable, and one that she’s inflicted on both her and him: the pain of a broken heart.


	23. Three Little Words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Sherlock confesses his love to Molly at Scotland Yard, but he doesn't realise that everyone is there.

This was ridiculous. Utterly, and completely ridiculous, Sherlock thought as he jumped inside a cab and fired off a text to Molly.

_Where are you? SH_

_Xmas party. Scotland Yard MH xxx_

She was using abbreviations. He guessed that she’d drunk at least two—three—glasses of champagne (of course it would be champagne; they were hardly original at Scotland Yard). With a sigh, he directed an order at the cab driver and sank back into the leather seat, hands steepled under his chin.

Contrary to what John, Mary, Lestrade—and even Mrs Hudson—had said over the last month or so, it wasn’t that he didn’t love her. Of course he did. He wouldn’t have involved himself in a romantic relationship with her if he wasn’t certain that his feelings for her were something that he would feel within 10 years or so. It wasn’t like his time with The Woman; that had been the very definition of lust—a quick roll in the hay, if you will. Molly was different, and in a way, so much more captivating than The Woman had been. Her beauty wasn’t obvious—it was something that came out in droplets until it had slowly formed into something so clear and so bright, it was almost annoying that he hadn’t noticed it beforehand.

That was the trouble; those three words just didn’t sum it up enough. It didn’t convey what he truly wanted to say.

And because of that, he was apparently a horrible boyfriend. _Sentiment_. He could never get the hang of sentiment.

* * *

The cab pulled up a few yards away from the entrance. Paying the driver, Sherlock jumped out, running towards the doors and bursting open. The bleary-eyed guard on duty at the desk lazily waved him through, more focused on singing Christmas tunes in a low, off-key hum. Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued on.

The offices, he saw, were practically overwhelmed with lurid Christmas decorations. A brightly lit tree was stuffed into the corner, fake presents stuffed underneath it. Peppy, cheerful music that gave him a headache was playing.

Sherlock's eyes scanned the room, mind focused on his task: find Molly.

Within just a moment, he found her. She was halfway through her third glass of cheap champagne, and unlike previous Christmases, she hadn’t dressed up for the occasion, only choosing to wear a Christmas jumper and jeans. Clearly she had only intended to stop by for a moment, but knowing her luck, she’d probably got stuck listening to colleagues moan about their workload—that sort of thing was inevitable at these kind of things. Squaring his shoulders, Sherlock stormed towards her and spun her around. Molly’s eyes widened on seeing him, and she let out a laugh.

"Sherlock, what—"

"Despite what the world and his mother thinks, and even though, much like Valentine’s Day, it’s just a meaningless social construct that doesn’t really encapsulate how much I do actually want, desire and need you in my life, I suppose I should say it: I love you." He took a breath. "There. Happy now?"

Molly said nothing, but a crimson red blush grew over her cheeks as she looked down, desperately trying not to laugh. Sherlock quick took notice of the source of her amusement. Like a scene from a bad romantic comedy, the screamingly cheery music had stopped just as he had started speaking, and everyone—Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, Dimmock, Stamford, even John and Mary—had their eyes glued to Sherlock and Molly.

The silence was a deeply uncomfortable one as Sherlock struggled to maintain his cool composure. John however, merely burst into quiet giggles along with Mary. A glare from Sherlock failed to stop him.

It was Donovan who broke the silence, scoffing a little as she took a sip of her own champagne. “Finally,” was all she said.

With that, everyone went back to their own conversations, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. Sherlock however, was still growing a beetroot red. Stepping away from the colleague she had been talking to, Molly smiled affectionately at Sherlock and looped her fingers against the lapels of his coat, drawing him close.

"Meaningless social construct it may be, but the, uh, sentiment is returned, Sherlock. Tenfold." She didn’t even give him time to answer before she claimed his mouth with hers. Between kisses, Sherlock grinned and wrapped his arms around her waist. When he’d first met Molly, he’d never imagined that he’d eventually be where he was now, with his arms around her waist as they exchanged soft kisses, but he decided that he liked it very much.

" _And they called it puppy love…_ " came blaring out of the speakers. As Molly laughed, Sherlock glared over at the DJ booth to see two small blonde figures quickly scurrying away, both of them giggling to themselves.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He had been wondering where to put that spare head. Now, he had the perfect place.

* * *

The next morning, the surprised yell that came from John’s mouth was one that would’ve woken the whole street.

In the guest bedroom, Molly jerked up with a gasp. Sherlock however, chuckled and cuddled at her waist, gently pulling her back down to his side.

"It’s nothing. Just a dismembered head to scare John and Mary," he murmured sleepily. Molly gave him a withering look.

"You can’t put dismembered heads in the fridge just because people annoy you."

"If they play ‘Puppy Love’, I can."

Molly sighed and snuggled against him. She couldn’t help but giggle as John shot off all manner of curses and swear words against Sherlock’s name. A genius Sherlock might have been, but he was still basically eight.

Still, at least it made for interesting mornings.


	24. Mutiny. (Khan/Molly Hooper)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Star Trek AU, Khan sees Molly Hooper in the infirmary and kidnaps her.

They thought they had the upper hand. Fools. Dull, idiotic fools. He sighed and deigned to open one eye to scan his environment.

They’d taken him to the infirmary, and currently, there was one other person in here with him—a woman. She wasn’t familiar, which was odd. He thought he’d counted every crew member on the ship when he was captured. The woman in question was short in height; her clothing showed her to be one of the Medical Staff on board. Her nervous disposition and fretful body language indicated that she was waiting for something, or someone.

The door opened, and Leonard McCoy stepped inside. The woman smiled up at him, but it fell again when she registered the scowl on his face.

"Mr McCoy, I—"

"Officer Hooper," McCoy said shortly, voice lowered. "We have got a dangerous terrorist on board. Make whatever you have to say short and sweet."

"I just – I don’t think the Enterprise is safe, sir."

"And why not?"

"Just – I – is it wise to have him on board?"

"How else are we going to get him back, Hooper? Teleport? Private plane?" McCoy hissed, and the Hooper woman nodded, quietened.

"Good. Now go check his vitals, and report back to me. Immediately. Is that clear?"

The Hooper woman nodded again, her lips forming into a soft whisper of “yes sir”. Satisfied, McCoy departed the room. After a pause, she quickly moved over to his sleeping form. When he did open his eyes, she jumped a little, breath caught. He smiled a dark smile.

"You’re correct in your suspicions." Slowly, he sat up, still looking at her. "The Enterprise isn’t safe."

"I – uh – what? I don’t—"

He chuckled softly and stood up, stepping towards her retreating form. He only stopped when he was looming over her, her back steeped against the wall as she watched him appraise her. His smile widened a little. She was such a nervous little thing.

His hand gripped tightly around her arm.

"I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Officer Hooper," he said softly, his gaze tracing down her arm towards her hand, which hovered over the panic button. His gaze flicked back up to her eyes. "We wouldn’t want anything bad to happen."

For a brief moment, the two of them stared at one another. It was as if she were trying to work him out. Another odd thing about her. Everyone else had spurned him, disregarding him as cold, murderous. He couldn’t quite tell if this was brave of her, or merely foolish. He preferred to think the latter.

Her hand drew away from the panic button, but her gaze never strayed from his face. He leaned a little closer. Her pupils widened with dilation, and he carefully tucked his fingers against her neck, feeling her pulse.

He raised an eyebrow. “Excited, are we?”

"Who – who are you?" she managed to say.

"Step away, sir!" a guard barked from behind him. He sighed heavily and turned on his heels to be met with the sight of a scrawny-faced guard weakly aiming a gun at his face. His smile stretched as he slowly put his hands to his head.

"I’m barely touching her," he said slowly. The guard lowered their gun, apparently confused.

"You’re sure?"

He shrugged in reply, still keeping his hands above his head. This was the security they had chosen? Starfleet really were lax.

It was when the guard stepped forward that he took his chance. Leaping forward, he gripped the guard by the neck, pushing them to their knees. The guard spluttered and pleaded and choked against his grip, but none of their pleading registered with him. In one swift movement, he snapped the guard’s neck and dropped the corpse to the floor. With a wicked grin on his lips, he turned back to her.

"My name, Officer Hooper, is Khan."

She was too quick for him to react. The panic button had been pressed before he had even stepped forward. He let out a deep growl and gripped her tightly by the arms, slamming her against the wall. The fierceness in her eyes almost threw him off guard. Almost.

"You should not have done that."

"Molly," she spat. "My name is Molly. Let go of me!"

He pressed her harder against the wall. “Calm yourself, _Molly._ ”

She stopped squirming, but the fierceness remained. His smile returned.

"You know, it might be useful to have someone on side who knows their way around the ship. What do you think, Officer Hooper?"

Her only reply was to try and wrestle free of him once more. His grip tightened, and he leaned towards her, his lips hovering close to her ear.

"You have already tried my patience once before," he whispered, tightening his grip slightly. "Do not do it again."

She quietened, and he stepped away from her, still keeping a tight grip on her left arm.

"Come," he ordered, steering her from the infirmary as the alarm blared overhead.

* * *

It was safe to say that Molly was terrified. Khan was relentless in his determination, steering them through corridor after corridor. She quickly figured out that he already knew every inch of the Enterprise; to him, she was just collateral. But if she was, then why had he taken her? Why he was dragging her down corridors, with a grip so tight that it gave her bruises? What exactly was his plan? Every question bounded and bounced around her head, none of them sticking to a concrete answer.

He moved the two of them down a darker, narrower corridor, and she realised; realised the reason she had seen no guards. He was avoiding the main corridors. The engine room. He was heading towards the engine room. Less chance of guards.

She felt herself getting tugged to the side, and his fingers clamped down on her mouth, muffling any sounds she may have made. Her breathing heavy, she watched wide-eyed from the darkened corner she found herself in as a burly guard slowly walked down the corridor, his gun aimed for fire. In the distance, the alarm continued to blare.

 _Notice me_ , she pleaded silently. _Just look this way and see me. See him._

It was not to be. The guard moved on, but Khan did not move, his hand still over her mouth. Only when he was satisfied that the guard was gone did he release her mouth; but his grip on her arm remained.

Once again, they were back on the move. Molly tripped and stumbled to keep up with him, but he didn’t relent. Instead, he kept moving, forced open the engine room door and pulled them through.

* * *

They reached the bridge far quicker than she wanted them to. Every step of the way, she had fought and dragged against him, hoping beyond all hope that by being slow she might have given the rest of the crew some time, but her efforts had been apparently for nothing.

Khan twisted her arms behind her back and as they stepped forward onto the bridge, the crew jumped up, weapons drawn.

Khan simply smiled again and held Molly tighter.

"Captain Kirk. Despite the noble efforts of Officer Hooper here, I’m taking over the Enterprise. Stand down."


	25. Engaged?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Sherlock finds an engagement ring at Molly's but can't figure out the who or why it's there.

He honestly hadn’t meant to find it. He had just meant to waste a few hours by organizing her socks into a proper, manageable index as he waited for her to come home from work. That was all.

Now he was stood, frozen to the spot, with his eyes fixed on the antique diamond ring nestled in between the very socks he had been organizing just moments previously.

They had only been dating for a few months—they were barely out of the “honeymoon period” as John had so eloquently put it—so why on earth would Molly be hiding an engagement ring in her sock drawer? Why should she want him to propose? Why was she even thinking about such a thing? Neither of them had ever mentioned or brought up the discussion of marriage—he assumed that such a commitment would only take place a few years into their relationship.

Unless there was a reason for the sudden need for a proposal. Sherlock swallowed thickly.

He needed to sit down.

* * *

Molly’s day at work had been an ordinary—if infuriating—one. Work had been relatively light, and so she’d been roped into escorting the new batch of medical students around the building. That had been the infuriating part of her day. It had also been the most tiring.

But when she stepped inside her flat to find Sherlock Holmes sitting on the sofa with a face as white as she’d ever seen it, any plans for a nice relaxing bath went out of the window as she immediately wondered what was wrong.

"Sherlock?" she asked softly. He didn’t seem to hear her. She carefully squeezed his shoulder, only to be met by him flinching suddenly, looking at her wide-eyed. He quickly brushed this aside however, smiling a little too widely. Molly frowned. He looked positively deranged.

"Molly! Sit down," he said brightly. Molly’s frown deepened as she sat beside him. Something had definitely rattled him. Was it something to do with the case? Had he been hurt? Attacked? She couldn’t see any wounds on him…

His hands engulfed hers as he gently held them and kissed at her knuckles.

"Molly," he said again. "I’m not a conventional man by any means—as you well know—but that doesn’t mean I have unconventional values."

Perhaps concussion. He did seem a little (well, a lot) out of sorts.

"I — ah — we live in an enlightened age, Molly."

"I know that. Sherlock, are you sure you’re alright?" she asked, and she raised her hand to his forehead, but he shook his head, apparently growing impatient.

"Look, Molly. Just because a woman might find herself pregnant, that doesn’t mean she—"

Her laughter interrupted him. Now, it was his turn to frown.

"You found the ring, didn’t you?" she spluttered, still laughing. Sherlock nodded slowly in response; but that only served to increase her hysterics.

"I — Jesus Christ Sherlock — it’s not mine!" she said between laughter. "It’s my friend’s — he asked me to look after it — until — until —"

There was no point in her continuing. Her laughter had quickly overwhelmed her, and Sherlock was already blushing furiously. Always, always something. He really needed to work on that.

"I’ll make some coffee," he said almost bitterly, rising to his feet but Molly grabbed at him, causing him to spin round.

"What?"

She was no longer laughing, but her eyes were bright and there was still an amused smile on her lips. “It’s okay, you know. To assume the worst.”

"But I’m a consulting detective, the only one in the world!" He knew he sounded like he was whining, but he didn’t care. Molly laughed and patted the space beside her. With a huff, he flopped down beside her, crossing his arms across his chest. Molly smiled and gently stroked at his thick curls.

"Even consulting detectives can’t be right all the time," she murmured, dropping a kiss on his forehead.

"What are you doing?" he mumbled, apparently determined to sulk. Her smile widened as she slowly dropped another kiss—this time on his cheek.

"I’m kissing it better."

"I am not a child."

Molly raised an eyebrow, softly kissing at just underneath his jaw. "Could’ve fooled me."

Sherlock let out a sigh and grabbed her, pulling her onto his lap. Molly let out a laugh as he nuzzled at her neck and caught his face with her hands before she planted a loving kiss on his mouth.

"Better?"

Sherlock shrugged, stealing another quick kiss before he spoke. “Not quite.”

"I’m guessing bedroom?"

Sherlock nodded. “Bedroom.”


	26. Purple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: pre-Sherlolly, with Molly seeing Sherlock's purple shirt of sex for the first time and, um... swooning, a little bit.

Meeting Sherlock Holmes was like being caught up in a tornado. He swept into the lab, tapping something quickly into his mobile.

"And you are?" he asked, looking up. It had taken all she could not to blush crimson. His gaze really was quite intense.

"Molly," she murmured. "Molly Hooper."

The man arched an eyebrow. “Pathologist.”

"Uh, yes." She could barely get the words out with the sight of those cheekbones. Christ, but he was gorgeous.

"Sherlock Holmes. I work with the police."

"Oh. Are - are you a detective inspector? Like - Lestrade?"

"Consulting detective, only one in the world. I invented the job," Sherlock said quickly. (When she looks back on it now, she sometimes believes that he was trying to impress her.) He paused before continuing. "I’ll be honest with you now. I dislike working with others, especially ones that talk inanely. You're a quiet sort though - that's clear from your manner - so I’ll tolerate you, for the time being. I also don't wear a lab coat when I work, so don’t try and persuade me to do so."

Molly stood there for a second, trying to absorb the information that had just been dumped on her. It was as Sherlock swept past her towards the workbench that she managed to gather her wits and speak.

"Sorry, but… are you sure you’re allowed in here?"

"That's irrelevant," he said, removing his coat and scarf.

Bollocks. _  
_

First the cheekbones, now that. His shirt. It was a perfect shade of purple, and it annoyingly accentuated every part of him. If a piece of clothing could define the word “sex”, that shirt could. A thousand times over.

Molly sighed inwardly. How she was going to get any work done now, she had no idea.


	27. A Protective Nature.

The texts came thick and fast; a good indication of the speed at which the sender’s thoughts were processing.

 _Molly,_ _come quickly to Baker Street. SH_

_I suppose you received my last text. I won’t repeat it. SH_

_Are you deliberately ignoring me? As far as I can tell, I’ve done nothing wrong. SH_

_This is immature, Molly. SH_

_Unless there’s another reason for your silence? You didn’t say yes to that dullard Paul did you? SH_

_Watching the news. That’s dull too. Something about a killer on the loose. I forget the details. Where are you? SH_

_Molly?_

_Molly, this isn’t funny._

_Fine, I’m coming over. You’d better be alive when I get there._

* * *

Sherlock battered down the door and quickly burst inside the flat; only to be met with the hard side of a cricket bat.

"Sherlock?!" Molly squeaked over the noise of his pained groans. He nodded once. Slowly, her grip on the bat loosened and she dropped it to the floor with a clatter.

"What the hell are you doing?"

His eyes flicked to the now battered door. “Sorry about that,” he muttered, moving into the living room where he sank down onto the sofa, gently pinching at his nose.

"I’m sorry," Molly said softly, now standing by the living room door with a First Aid kit in her hands. "Did I hurt you?"

He shook his head. “There’s nothing broken, from what I can tell. In fact, you barely caught me. I’m sure it just looks worse than it actually is.”

She gave a little smile as she sat down beside him. “I’ll clean you up anyway. Only fair.”

Although he often preferred to tend to his own wounds when hurt (a habit he’d picked up from his 'death'), he allowed himself to let her tend to him and for a few moments, there was silence between them in the darkened flat.

"Um, Sherlock, this is just a question, but—"

"Why did I storm into your flat in the middle of the night?"

"Basically," she said as she shrugged as she finished up tending to his nose. Sherlock didn’t reply. It wasn’t that he didn’t know why he had stormed over there when she hadn’t replied. He did know; he knew exactly why he had done what he did. And it wasn’t a new feeling, this desire to protect her. (Another habit he’d picked up during his "death".)

"Isn’t it obvious?" he said finally. Molly stared at him for a long time, frozen in her movements.

"Not—not really."

He sighed, looking at her. “Please don’t make me spell it out. It’s perfectly clear.”

"Not to me."

"Then deduce. Observe."

There was a pause as her gaze scanned him slightly, taking in what she could. “Well… I’d guess you came here in a hurry, right? So you were… scared?”

He swallowed slightly and nodded. A small smile grew on her lips as she looked at him. In this particular light, she was quite beautiful.

"You were scared… for me?"

He nodded again. This time, Molly said nothing as her eyes slowly scanned him once more.

Then it happened. In one swift movement, her hand was on his neck and her mouth was pressed against his. Almost immediately however, she had pulled away, shy and nervous once more.

"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—I just wanted to thank you, you know…"

It was now Sherlock’s turn to smile. With his fingers delicately tracing over the lines of her palm, he aimed his smile straight at her and leaned towards her. There was always a reason for whatever he did, he knew that. Wanting to protect Molly wasn’t just because he wanted to repay for what she had done—what she had risked—up to three years ago. It was a result of something much more complex and infinitely more intriguing.

Her smile widened as he dropped a gentle, tender kiss on her lips and soon, they were lost in the clumsy, passionate tangle of their embrace. Against his mouth, he felt her give a fond, affectionate chuckle.

"You should worry about me more."


	28. The One With The Black Eye. (Parentlock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parent!lock, featuring Mummy!Molly and three silly kids. No prompt given for this one.

As she tended to do when waiting, Molly hummed. It was an nondescript tune, one that had just popped into her head momentarily, and one that ended when the school bell rang loud and clear.

Molly smiled and started the car, peering through the crowd of school kids. Poppy was the first one she saw. As always, Poppy's attention was stuck on the open textbook in her hands. Molly didn’t try to wave; nothing could break Poppy’s focus when she was reading. Charlie was the second one she saw. She couldn’t help but smile. Lanky and with limbs that he wasn’t really used to yet, he was much like his father had been in his youth. He even had the same mess of curls. He grinned on seeing Molly waiting, and, bounding towards the car, he got in, situating himself in the front passenger seat.

Molly’s smile immediately dropped. She hadn’t seen it beforehand, but now it was right there, clear as day: her only son was sporting a rather magnificent black eye.

"Oh, Charlie! What happened?"

He blushed a little in reply, shrugging. “Nothing important.”

"If you’re getting bullied—"

"It’s not that," her son mumbled. Molly gently squeezed his shoulder in comfort.

"I'll say it again: what happened? You can tell me. Or perhaps you’d like to tell your dad—?"

"No! Please, please don’t involve Dad in this. He’s kind of the reason why I got this thing anyway."

"What?!"

"No, no, not like that. It’s just—"

Poppy, who had climbed inside the car during this whole exchange, sighed and leaned forward.

"He’s not telling you because he got punched by a girl," she said, looking to her mother. "And where’s Dad? I had an idea for an experiment I want to talk to him about."

Molly shook her head. “Your father’s on a case - and no to the experiment. At least for another week. The builders have only just finished retiling the kitchen.”

"Exactly! It’s been ages since I did another experiment! I’m bored!"

"Mum, I should clarify that I did not get punched - we just had a minor disagreement—"

"It’s been almost a month - C’mon Mum..."

Charlie and Poppy continued to speak over one another, their words tangling into an inconceivable mess before Molly finally put up a hand.

"Wait, wait. Wait! Poppy, we’ll talk about the experiment later, but for now, the answer is a firm no!" (At this, Poppy huffed and went back to her textbook.) "And Charlie, _what the hell happened_? I want to know how my son managed to get punched so hard he got a black eye!”

Charlie tried to stare his mother down. He lasted all of two seconds. “Okay, so, there’s this girl you see - her name’s Daisy - and well, I like her… a lot. She’s just so lovely, and so - so pretty. I went to Dad to ask him about what I should do, because y’know, Daisy’s - _Daisy_ , and I’m well - me. Anyway, I went to Dad, couple of days ago now—”

Molly sighed and repressed the urge to bury her head in her hands. Already, she could see where this was going.

* * *

Five minutes later, and Charlie’s story was complete and Molly was sat with her head in her hands as she gently rubbed at her temple.

"So. Let me get this straight. You wanted to impress Daisy, so you went to your father for help. He then proceeded to teach you about the art of deduction. And using these new found skills, you went up to Daisy, in front of all of her friends and told her, 'It’s okay your parents are splitting up, divorce happens all the time these days.' Right. Charlie, do I need to tell you how monumentally not good that is?"

"I think the black eye’s a bit of a giveaway," Poppy muttered.

Charlie flushed red again, and Molly sighed, smiling slightly. She reached forward and gave his curls an affectionate ruffle.

"In the future, come to me for advice, okay? That way, we can avoid any unhappy endings."

"It wasn’t really an unhappy ending…" Charlie muttered, cheeks still crimson.

"Sorry? Have I missed something? How is getting a black eye not an unhappy ending?"

"He apologised to her and they were kissing behind the bike sheds by lunchtime," Poppy said simply, and was met with a glare from Charlie. Molly raised an eyebrow.

"I see. But Charlie, listen - relationships that start off with the girl you fancy giving you a black eye aren’t the best relationships."

Poppy scoffed. “You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen the way they were snogging.”

Molly spluttered a laugh. “Poppy!”

The car door slammed and a cry of “Hi guys!” came from Emma.

"Okay, where have you been? You've missed quite the story," Molly asked.

"Oh, was just talking to my art teacher - he was talking about Van Gogh today and predictably, got pretty much everything wrong - bloody hell!" She leaned forward, staring at her brother. "That’s a heck of a shiner you’ve got there! Did you get in a fight? You got in a fight, didn’t you? Was it with Jake - ooh! Was it with Ryan? Tell me it was with Ryan! Maybe Luke?"

Charlie sighed. “No, I didn’t get in a fight, and no, it wasn’t with any of your ex-boyfriends.”

Emma pouted, but shrugged it away. “Alright. Who was it then? Did you fight with a teacher?”

Molly started the car and pulled away as Emma continued to reel off a list of names. When she did eventually learn of the culprit, her only response was to throw her head back and laugh. Soon enough, her siblings and her mother joined in with her mirth.


	29. Secret Relationship. (Parentlock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More parent!lock. This time based on an anonymous prompt of Sherlock and Molly's daughter wanting to hide the fact she's dating John's son from Sherlock.

Molly Hooper might not have been as astute or as observant as the consulting detective with whom she had decided to share her life, but she could tell when her daughter was hiding something.

Furtive glances at her phone. Little smiles when she thought no-one was looking. A newly found tendency to stare happily off into space.

It all built up to something quite suspicious.

"Have you noticed anything - odd, lately?" Molly asked Sherlock one day, setting a cup of coffee beside him as he sifted through a pile of old case files on the living room floor.

"I notice everything," he said shortly, more focused on his task in hand. Molly sighed.

"I mean, have you noticed anything strange about Poppy?"

"Aside from the fact that she seems a little more attached to her phone than usual?"

Molly merely rolled her eyes and stood up, making sure to give him a swift kiss as she left. If it wasn’t bacteria, a body part or a gunshot wound, Sherlock Holmes could be staggeringly ignorant. 

Clearly, she’d have to do a bit of her own investigating.

* * *

That aforementioned investigation did involve a bit of tailing on her part. Nothing that could be regarded as intrusion, but enough for her to see exactly what it was that Poppy had decided to keep hiding. She arrived at the school just that bit earlier; took peeks whenever Poppy brought her phone out of her pocket. Little things.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough. It seemed clear that Poppy Hooper-Holmes had picked up her father’s skills of hiding in plain sight.

Well, right up until the day Molly decided to come home early from work. It had been a somewhat tiring day for her—first year medical students were, at the best of times, a rowdy bunch—so she had been looking forward to getting home and being able to settle down.

Such plans were dashed when she stepped inside the house and could’ve sworn to have heard a loud cry of “Shit!” come from Poppy’s bedroom. Her eyes widened a little. Carefully, she stepped forward and knocked lightly on her daughter’s door.

"Poppy?" she called. "Is everything okay in there?"

She received her answer when the door swung open to reveal a slightly ruffled but widely grinning Poppy.

"Mum!" she cried brightly. "I’m fine. Just y’know, tired. Long day."

She yawned widely for emphasis. Molly raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest, looking at her daughter.

"Tired? Is that it?"

Poppy nodded. Molly’s eyebrows arched higher.

"And why are there two school ties hanging over the edge of your bed?"

The smile plastered across Poppy’s mouth tightened, then faltered. Molly didn’t even have to wait a full minute before a short, blonde-haired boy crawled out from under the bed and faced her, a lopsided grin on his face.

"Hi Harry," Molly said simply, glancing towards her daughter. A crimson flush grew over Harry’s cheeks as he rubbed at the back of his head.

"Hello."

"Bye Mum! Great seeing you!" Poppy called quickly, pushing the door closed. Not missing a beat, Molly pushed it back open.

"How long?" she asked.

“A month.”

"And I’m guessing neither Uncle John nor your father have been informed."

"Yep."

"Poppy. Your father deserves to know. As does yours," she added, looking towards Harry.

Poppy shook her head.

"No! No _way_ can Dad know. He’s been bad enough with my other boyfriends! What do you think he’ll do if he finds out I’m dating Harry, of all people?"

"He’s not _that_ bad…”

"He threatened my first boyfriend with a harpoon!"

Molly stifled a giggle at the memory. That poor boy. He hadn’t even got past the front door of the house before Sherlock—who had been standing at the top of the stairs—had held the harpoon straight at him and told him in no uncertain terms that he expected his daughter to come back alive. (How their daughter could come into any harm at the cinema was something Molly had yet to figure out.)

"You’re going to have tell him soon though. You do know that?"

“Of course I do," Poppy replied. "I just wanted a relationship that didn’t start with Dad and Greg getting the whole police force storm my boyfriend’s house.”

"To be fair, the boy’s father did turn out to be a drug dealer."

"That isn’t the point. Just don’t tell him okay?"

For a long moment, Molly looked to her daughter and Harry. The way he looked at her said eons. It was sort of inevitable really, that they’d end up together. They had always been close as children, and the mutual adoration they had shared was clear for anyone to see. For them to end up dating was just a natural course of events.

Whether Sherlock would see it that way? That was a different kettle of fish altogether.

So Molly smiled. “Fine. Tell him when you’re ready. But - you know - make sure to let me know beforehand - that way I can hide away any weaponry he might use.”

Harry’s eyes widened a little, his face draining of colour. Molly laughed.

"I’m kidding Harry," she said lightly, before leaning close to Poppy. "But seriously - let me know beforehand."

"Trust me, I will."

"Oh, and um… You are - uh - being careful? Aren’t you?"

The only answer Molly got to that was a quick slamming of the door.

She prayed that meant yes.

* * *

It was later that night when Molly was asleep in bed that she heard the front door close. She jumped awake, but her phone immediately beeped with a new text message.

_It’s me. There’s no need for a cricket bat. SH_

At this, she smiled and sat up further, watching the bedroom door. She only had to wait a few minutes before Sherlock stepped inside. He was relatively unscathed, only carrying the marks of someone exhausted from a heavy day at work.

"Everything go okay?" she asked quietly as he stepped forwards. He nodded, gently playing with her fingers.

"The killer turned out to be an old employee of the company."

"And not a good man I take it?"

"Not good at all. Still, he’s arrested now."

"All’s well that ends well," Molly said with a smile. Sherlock nodded again. When Molly let out a soft laugh, he frowned. She waved a dismissive hand and, sitting up, affectionately rubbed at the lower part of his back.

"Just thinking about when you used to regard pyjamas as a wasteful expense."

"I’d still think that way, if it wasn’t for you. It’s your fault for domesticating me."

Molly rolled her eyes and shifted to the side a little as Sherlock got inside the bed. As he always did after a particularly long day, he drew her close to him and gently pulled back at her hair to nuzzle and kiss at her neck. Letting out a quiet but contented sigh, she reached back to caress the follicles of his curls.

"Poppy’s begun dating again."

She’d said it before she could think, and she immediately swore out loud, clapping a hand over her mouth. Sherlock however, seemed nonplussed by this news and continued to kiss at the softness of her neck. She turned round to look at him.

"Aren’t you going to say anything? Last time I mentioned she was dating, you immediately went searching for your gun."

"Which I still haven’t found, by the way."

Molly decided to ignore this comment. “You’re being remarkably calm.”

"Of course I am," he said, eyes twinkling a little as he grinned. "Why shouldn’t I be?"

The little bugger. A wry grin spread over her lips all the same.

"How long? How long have you known?"

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s not difficult to spot. John knows too, by the way.”

"Great. She goes to all this trouble to hide her relationship, when it turns out you and John have known all along!" Molly hissed.

"Molly, you’ve misunderstood me. I’ve got no intention of making my knowledge known. And neither has John."

"What?"

"I don’t know why she’s so averse to keeping her relationship with Harry a secret from me—"

"You arranged a raid on her last boyfriend’s house."

"Which led to a dismantling of one of London’s most prolific drug dealing empires, thank you very much. The point is, yes, I may not know why she wishes to keep her love life secret, but I am able to respect what she wants. Anyway, she’s chosen Harry to date - which, in the long run, is beneficial."

Molly frowned. “Beneficial?”

"In the fact that, as a result of prior knowledge, we can be safe in the fact that she and Harry will be just fine together."

She giggled and gave a small shrug, snuggling closer to him.

"Yes, well. Every Watson needs their Holmes."

Sherlock dropped a kiss on her cheek, tracing his lips back to her ear. “And every Holmes needs their Hooper.”


	30. Like Father, Like Son. (Parentlock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Sherlock's son runs off while on a case and Sherlock tries desperately to find him.

It wasn’t his fault.

Well, it sort of was.

Okay, it definitely was his fault.

Considering he was now the one running down the street, coat flapping behind him and calling his son’s name, it was most definitely _his_ fault.

* * *

**One hour earlier.**

"Mrs. Hudson will be out for most of the day - her sister’s back in hospital, don’t know if you were listening - so you’re kind of on your own - at least for today," Molly said as she packed away her belongings into her suitcase. Sherlock nodded, more focused on paying attention to the little boy sitting in his lap. Molly continued. 

"There’s food in the fridge - it’s all clearly labeled, so you just have to heat it. Poppy!" she called, whirling round and heading up the stairs. "We’re going now!"

"In a minute!" was the cross reply. Sherlock chuckled and continued to bounce Charlie up and down on his knee, smiling as his son laughed. Molly sighed and did a last minute check on her suitcase, as Poppy came bounding down the steps, her own bright blue rucksack bouncing on the small of her back as she gripped the handles tightly around her shoulders. Skipping past her mother, Poppy moved towards her father, grinning in the only way an eight year old can: cheekily.

"Guess this is goodbye then."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but his eyes shined with affection. “It’s only for two weeks. Have fun anyway.” He leaned closer, grin widening. “And make sure you annoy your grandmother as much as possible.”

"Please don’t encourage her," Molly said as she did yet another last minute check.

"I wasn't encouraging - merely suggesting."

Molly chuckled, shaking her head. “Nice try. But just remember: you're only taking burglary cases while I'm away. No murder cases.”

Sherlock pouted. No murder cases for two weeks? Boring. Of course, what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.

Molly caught the look in his eyes and she leaned closer to him, fixing her fiercest glare on him. Slowly, she raised a finger and jabbed it close to his cheek.

“Not. One. Murder. Understood, Mr Holmes?”

Sherlock swallowed back a gulp. Molly Hooper could be awfully terrifying when she wished to be. He nodded carefully as Charlie let out a giggle, his gaze flitting between his parents.

"Yes. Of course Molly. No murders. Just burglaries. And assaults."

"Sherlock…"

"Fine. Just burglaries."

Molly broke into a grin. “Perfect!” Quickly she kissed both her husband and her son on their foreheads before she stood up, taking Poppy’s hand in one and the suitcase in the other.

"See you in two weeks!" she cried, giving a little wave to the two. With that, she and Poppy departed from the flat. Sherlock smiled and cuddled Charlie closer, kissing at the top of his dark curls.

"So. How about some music?"

* * *

He had been playing for about half an hour when there was a knock on the door. He didn’t need to look to know that Lestrade was standing there.

"No," he said simply, and continued to play for a now sleeping Charlie, who was currently curled up in Sherlock’s armchair, swathed in his favourite blanket. Lestrade smiled on seeing the boy, but that smile swiftly disappeared when he looked to Sherlock, his expression now carrying a familiar lost weariness about it.

"Please. Everything’s a dead end. Just one quick look around the crime scene—five minutes, tops."

Now he paused. “How far away is it?”

"Five minutes, maybe? Just around the corner."

"No. I promised."

Lestrade sighed heavily and brushed his fingers through his hair as he tried again. “It’s a complicated one.”

"How complicated?"

"Oh, um… about an 8?"

"It’s 10 or nothing. And considering a 10 is far beyond the reach of any normal London criminal, I believe this conversation is at an end. Good day." To emphasize his point, Sherlock resumed playing. Bach always got rid of annoying people. Giving up, Lestrade let out a short growl and turned on his heels, practically skulking away and down the steps. Sherlock smiled, and quickly switched to a more relaxing tune: Vaughan Williams, the Lark Ascending. The sleeping Charlie burbled peacefully on hearing it.

"Lovely tune," Mycroft drawled. Dropping his violin to his side, Sherlock groaned and reluctantly turned to face his brother.

"Lestrade put you up to this."

"No, in fact I put Gre— _Lestrade_ onto you. I thought you might listen.”

Sherlock noted the slip, but decided not to mention it. Instead, he filed it away in his mind palace for later use.

"You thought wrong," he said, to which Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"I know you promised Molly only burglary cases, but this is one of national importance."

"Don’t care. Put someone else onto it. Put John onto it, even."

"John Watson is currently attending the birth of his second child. Or have you forgotten that fact?"

"I didn’t forget, thank you very much. I just thought, considering it’s a private occasion between John and Mary, it might just be best to keep it that way. Now go away. I have my son to look after."

Mycroft sighed and looked at Sherlock for a moment. “I will give you a knighthood.”

"I don’t go in for bribery."

"It wasn’t a bribe."

And so that was how Sherlock Holmes found himself standing in front of a crime scene, holding the hand of his four year old son with the threat of a knighthood hanging over him.

* * *

_Five minutes. Five minutes my arse_ , Sherlock thought as his gaze swept over the scene for what seemed like the hundredth time. He could see why the police had been so baffled. The body was present, but not present at the same time. The room was perfectly clean, and in the middle of the room, there was a single clean photograph showing the bloodied face of a high level politician attached to the floor by a single wooden nail. Sherlock examined the photograph once again, drawing a gloved finger across its edges. There was nothing, except dust.

"Well?" Lestrade asked, standing in the doorway. "Found anything?"

"You said this has already been examined for fingerprints, yes?"

Lestrade nodded, giving a little shrug. Sherlock turned back to the photograph and examined it again. After a few moments, he stood.

"You’re looking for someone with OCD. Most likely high level. Look at the room—everything is in order, right down to the photograph. It’s not just in the middle of the room, it’s equidistant to each of these four corners. Why? Because it means something. Perhaps not to us, but it definitely means something to the culprit. Look to the right of the photograph. See that light patch? The killer first put the photograph there; presumably as some kind of political statement. But they couldn’t just leave it—it’s kind of a cruel irony really; the statement they’ve tried to make about political discord is lost by their own constant need for routine—so they change it to make it ‘right’."

He paused in his deductions, looking around. “Wait. Where’s Charlie?”

"Left him with Anderson."

Sherlock’s features darkened and he stepped towards Lestrade. “You left my child with… _Anderson_?!” There weren’t enough words in the world that could’ve described the contempt with which Sherlock spat out the name. Forgetting about the crime scene, he spun round on his heels and stormed outside.

Where he found Anderson—but no child. Instead, he was chatting up some terrified female colleague. Sherlock brushed away any quips he might’ve had and grabbed Anderson by his collar.

"Where’s. My. Son."

"Wh-what? I haven’t seen your son!"

"I am this close to punching you. Tell me the truth."

"I haven’t seen your son!" Anderson repeated, pushing Sherlock away from him. "I hate kids!"

Sherlock grabbed at him again. “Tell me where my son is.”

"I. Don’t. Know."

The terrified female colleague coughed slightly, looking up at the two men. Sherlock turned his glare towards her. She flinched slightly, but held firm.

"I think I saw a dark-haired kid - he went that way," she added, pointing down the street in a left-handed direction. Immediately, Sherlock let go of Anderson and whipped down the street. Any thoughts of OCD kidnappers, politicians and perfectly placed photographs were gone.

God, but Molly would kill him. She would hate him; loathe him. He made a mental note to never disobey her again. It would be better to just take the knighthood. He stopped for a moment, looking quickly around. Still no sign.

"Charlie!"

"Hey, freak," a voice said behind him. He turned to find Donovan stood behind him, a small triumphant smile on her face. And who exactly was it holding onto her hand so tightly? Charlie.

Sherlock cracked a grin and knelt down, holding his arms wide. He chuckled as his son barreled into him, and still smiling, Sherlock scooped his son into his arms and got to his feet, kissing at the top of Charlie’s head.

"I found him wandering around after Anderson, and thought he could do with a bit of a walk. You should know it’s not good to bring a kid to work, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, smiling at Charlie and stroking at his hair.

"I know that now." He looked to Sally. "Thank you, for looking after him."

Sally raised an eyebrow, probably out of surprise.

“It’s alright. He’s okay really,” she said after a moment. A light, teasing grin flicked across her face. “Not half as annoying as his dad.”

"You can thank his mother for that," Sherlock said and he turned away, continuing to walk down the street and past the crime scene.

He didn’t mention his and Charlie’s little excursion to Molly when she rang up later that night to check on them. However, when she returned back to work a fortnight later, she couldn’t help but notice the changed dynamics between Sherlock and Donovan.

Although they still weren’t exactly friends, they weren’t exactly the enemies that they used to be.

Yet when she asked her husband about this, he deftly feigned innocence.

Sadly for Sherlock, she did eventually learn of the reason why, given to her by a gossiping colleague. Two words instantly rang out through the morgue:

"SHERLOCK! _HOLMES!_ "


	31. Ice Skating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From tumblr user sherlollysmooch: Molly and Sherlock go on a double date with John and Mary to ice skate, though it turns out Sherlock doesn't know how to skate.

John came bounding up the steps to 221b, grinning widely as he stepped into the kitchen.

"No."

His smile dropped.

"I haven’t said anything yet."

"You were going to."

John sighed and sat opposite his friend, currently hunched over his microscope, more interested in bacteria than anything else.

Letting out a sigh, John glanced around, and he couldn’t help but crack a smile. When he’d lived with Sherlock, the kitchen had been more of a laboratory than anything. Yet somehow, it was looking more and more like a kitchen day by day.

Clearly, Molly was having quite an influence.

"Anyway. Mary and I were going—"

"I’m working."

"Mary and I were going to go to Somerset House tonight, and we’ve got some spare tickets."

"I don’t see how that affects me."

John shrugged. “Well, y’know, it’s nearly Christmas - just thought you and Molly might like to come along. Get into the festive spirit.”

A single side-eye glare from Sherlock was enough to tell him just how much of a bad idea it really was. John smirked.

"Fine. You don’t have to come along if you don’t want. It was just a suggestion."

It was with that he left the flat, shutting the door behind him.

Only a few minutes had passed before another set of feet trudged up the steps. Sherlock instinctively smiled, but he didn’t look up from his work. Molly entered the kitchen, two large shopping bags in either hand and her bag hanging off her shoulder.

"First years?"

Molly nodded.

“First years. And no, I’m not going to ask how you knew,” she added, moving towards the fridge. Sherlock only looked up when he heard her give a small cry of surprise.

"What is it?"

"Where’d you get these?" she asked, holding up a pair of tickets. "Mary was chatting about this last night - when you and John were catching that blackmailer guy - she seemed really excited about it. I’ll have to phone her, see if she's still up for it."

Sherlock glowered as Molly took out her phone and dialed Mary’s number. Annoyingly for him, Mary picked up on the first ring.

"Mary, are you still going to Somerset House? Oh, John already asked Sherlock. He said no? That’s weird…" Molly began to giggle as she realised what had happened. Sherlock just glowered some more and petulantly pretended to continue working.

"Oh, God, Mary - you should see Sherlock’s face! Don’t worry though - we’ll be there. About 6? Sounds good to me. See you later!"

When she rang off, she grinned widely. When Sherlock still didn’t look at her, she pouted and moved towards him, the tickets in her hand.

"Oh, come on," she said, voice having taken on a slightly wheedling tone. Sherlock remained stoical. "It’ll be fun."

"It'll be many things, but it won't be fun."

Molly laughed, the sound soft and low as her arms gently looped around his shoulders. Sherlock remained looking at his microscope, even though he’d gathered all of the information he needed already. He wasn’t going to go ice skating. That was final.

Molly’s breath was a comforting warmth on his neck as she delicately began to press kisses just on the edge of his jawline. He cleared his throat.

"Molly."

She continued, her lips tracing against his skin and up to his earlobe. Her right hand was now in his hair, tenderly stroking at his curls. Sherlock shifted.

"Molly," he repeated, firmer. If she’d heard him, she didn’t give any indication of the fact. No. She just continued in her delicious torture, her fingers looping around his black curls and her lips pressing against the small hint of collarbone under his shirt.

"Fine!" he cried, springing to his feet and avoiding looking at Molly’s triumphant grin. " _Fine._ We’ll go."

* * *

Screechingly cheerful music blared out from speakers as hundreds of skaters slipped and slid around the ice, all of them laughing as they tightly held onto one another.

Sherlock quickly decided that the romanticism of such a pastime would obviously be something he wouldn’t understand.

John and Mary, both wrapped up in jumpers and scarves, dived straight into the activity, even though neither of them were very good, and they were soon slipping and sliding all over one each other, laughing with each pratfall made. Sherlock quietly stood at the sidelines, his borrowed ice skates lying ignored beside him. Molly was halfway through putting on her own ice skates when she noticed his reluctance to join.

"Sherlock? Everything okay?"

"I’m fine."

Molly watched him for a moment, and a small smile grew on her lips. “You don’t know how to ice skate. Do you?”

"It was never necessary," Sherlock muttered, avoiding her eyes. Molly sighed and began to untie her ice skates. Noticing this, he frowned.

"What are you doing?"

She shrugged. “I’m not going out there if you’re not.”

"I’m fine watching."

"Yeah, well. I’m not fine with you watching," Molly said, lacing up her trainers and standing beside him. "Not on your own anyway."

Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow, but he said nothing before he leaned against the barrier and watched as John began to lead a nervous, hesitant Mary around the rink. He smiled when he felt Molly snuggle closer to him, wrapping herself tightly around his left arm.

After a moment, she looked up at him. “Why’d you say yes if you couldn’t ice skate?”

"It’s rather difficult to keep a steady mind when you…" He cleared his throat slightly. "Well. It’s just hard to refuse you, that’s all."

Molly smiled widely and rested her head against his shoulder, snuggling tighter against him. “You’re such a sentimental clot sometimes.”

"Well, that’s better than other things I’ve been called, I must admit," he replied, looking at her once more. Scarves definitely suited her. She gave a little, contented sigh and continued to watch the other people move around the ice rink.

"They make a good pair, don’t they? John and Mary, I mean. I’m happy he found her."

"I should remind you that they aren’t the only ‘good pair’ around here this evening," Sherlock murmured, leaning close to her ear and kissing at the very tops of her earlobes. She flushed crimson; it only increased when he shifted position to face her completely and took her face in his hands to lovingly pull her into a deep kiss. She soon fell into the embrace, her arms snaking around his waist and clutching at the fabric of his coat. Together, they deepened the kiss, now with barely any space between their bodies.

"Having fun?" a voice called. Molly opened her eyes to see Mary doing the thumbs up, and she giggled.

"Ignore her," Sherlock muttered, more than a little annoyed. He didn’t kiss his girlfriend in public only to be rudely interrupted by his best friend’s wife. Molly happily complied and pressed her mouth to his.

When Mary did look over again at the spot where Sherlock and Molly were watching them, she found that the space was now occupied by a mother and daughter. The pathologist and her consulting detective were nowhere to be seen.

In actual fact, they were back in 221b, partaking in some _very_ creative routines of their own, and all to the tune of Ravel’s Bolero.


	32. The Sock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from tumblr user anise495: John walks in on Molly straddling Sherlock and shoving a sock in his face.

It had been a long, long day. After working the early shift at the clinic and then looking around yet another set of wedding venues with Mary, John was more than prepared to fall face first into his bed and snore his way into a deep, deep sleep.

When he did enter into 221b, there was nothing really out of the ordinary. The familiar smell of Mrs Hudson’s ‘herbal soothers’ wafted from her own flat, mixed in with the scent of apple pie and the sounds of chattering. John dimly remembered about her bridge club as he moved slowly up the stairs. (He was careful to avoid the step that creaked. Right now, when it was nearing damn well near 9 in the evening, the one thing he didn’t need was a lecture from Sherlock about disturbing him during work.)

With a heavy sigh, he stopped at the door and unlocked it.

Where he opened it to find darkness.

He sighed again, quietly grumbling under his breath as he tucked his keys into his jacket and switched on the light.

His first response was to gape. Widely.

The reason for his shock was simple: Sherlock, naked as a newborn, was laid across the length of the sofa, a men’s sock stuffed into his mouth. Sitting astride him was none other than Molly Hooper, shy pathologist at St. Bart’s and equally as naked as Sherlock.

And they were both laughing.

John quickly turned to leave.

"Oh, don’t leave on our account, John!" Sherlock called, his words immediately followed by a gasp and squeak from Molly. John closed his eyes.

"No, I really think I should. You’re um - busy."

"Not at all," Sherlock said brightly as he got to his feet.

"Please, you really don’t have to get up - Sherlock! Oh," John said, blinking. Neither Sherlock nor Molly were quite as naked as he thought; he was in fact wearing boxer shorts whilst Molly wore a bra and knickers. Yet as he spoke, Sherlock made sure to deftly hid Molly’s figure from view, allowing her to cover herself with the blue dressing gown. All the same, John turned his back and kept his gaze firmly fixed on the floor.

"You really shouldn’t be so concerned John," Sherlock said cheerily (far too cheerily for someone who had just been caught performing foreplay with his girlfriend in his own living room). "You see, Molly and I were merely performing an experiment."

"Experiment. Right." John couldn’t help but laugh.

"You don’t believe me."

"Considering what I just saw, no I don’t."

Sherlock sighed and there were the sounds of muttered conversation between him and Molly before light footsteps padded towards where John was stood, still looking at the floor.

"Um… John. Sherlock’s right. It was actually an experiment. It was for his latest case you see — the man apparently died of asphyxiation or something like that — Sherlock had a theory — that someone could have — oh, um…" Molly trailed off, and John could almost feel her embarrassment. 

"I wanted to see if a man could reveal any important information whilst experiencing auto-erotic asphyxiation," Sherlock explained, his footsteps striding towards where John and Molly stood to make a perfect triangle of awkwardness and near-nudity.

"And you needed to be practically naked to do that?" John asked, immediately regretting doing so when Sherlock decided to answer.

"It was the only way I could become properly aroused. Luckily, we were only in the beginning stages of the experiment when you walked in."

There was the sound of a playful smack, and then a giggle.

"Hang on!" John said, whipping around to face the two of them. "Couldn’t you have just used the information from the case with The Woman? She’s living proof that a man can do what… well, that a man can do what you were trying to do!"

Sherlock and Molly shared a look before they both glanced back to John. It was to his great surprise that Molly gave a shrug and a smile.

"I suppose so. Guess it was worth a try."

Whether she meant the tale of the experiment or the experiment itself, John wasn’t too sure. Sherlock gave a wry grin and kissed Molly on the top of her head. That was when John noticed the sock that was now lying, forgotten, on the floor. His mouth dropped open.

"Wait a minute - _that’s my sock!_ ”


	33. The Differences Between Snuggling and Cuddling.

If there was one thing Sherlock Holmes did not do, it was snuggling. Yes, he enjoyed discussing his cases with Molly and helping her develop her various papers, but they did not snuggle. If she happened to end up curled up in his lap during these conversations, with her hair trailing over his shoulder in that special way it always did, that was pure coincidence.

If he happened to go to St. Bart’s and find her hard at work in either the lab or morgue and on seeing her, felt the urge to wrap his arms around her and kiss at her neck, that was merely him showing a sentiment he hadn’t shown to others. It was most definitely not snuggling.

If it was late at night and the two were watching a horror film, and she curled up in his lap to find comfort in the dark, it still was not something he would term snuggling. Even when he would stroke at her hair and whisper that it was okay and tell her the identity of the killer to soothe her, that was not the action of someone who snuggled. It was the actions of a dutiful life partner.

If Mrs Hudson came up in the morning to just “sniff around” for anything that might need cleaning and found them from the previous night, wrapped in each other on the sofa and covered by nothing but a blanket, that was not snuggling. That was merely an unfortunate accident—and one that could be easily solved by acquiring a more secure door lock.

It wasn’t snuggling, and it certainly wasn’t _cute_.

"You’re turning into a right old softie," John says one day. He’s visited to go over the notes of their latest case, but currently seems more interested in teasing his best friend. He settles back into the sofa, a smug grin plastered on his face and a cup of tea in his hands.

"The killer obviously got rid of the gun as soon as possible—but not in any of the usual places," Sherlock mutters. "Why is that?"

John shrugs. “No idea. Any idea why Mrs Hudson told me about seeing you and Molly cuddling on the living room floor a couple of mornings back?”

"That was an unfortunate incident, John. It will not be repeated. Haven’t I said this already?"

"You have."

He leaves it a moment before speaking again. “Do you like snuggling then?”

"I find that sexual activity stimulates my thought processes, yes."

John winces at this, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow. For a man so fixated on the inner workings of the female gender, John is awfully Victorian about the whole subject of biological reproduction.

"You know that’s not what I meant—"

Footsteps bounding up the steps causes him to stop short. Both he and Sherlock turn their heads to look towards the new arrival. It’s Sherlock however who springs to his feet, a smile on his face. Molly reciprocates, delicately avoiding the case notes spread over the floor to provide him with a soft, quick kiss.

"Afternoon. Fruitful day?"

"Very fruitful," John pipes up. His smile only widens when Sherlock shoots a glare at him.

Molly laughs. “I hope you haven’t been annoying him too much John.”

"No, not at all. We were just discussing the benefits of… snuggling."

"Sexual activity were the words I used," Sherlock mumbles grumpily before trudging towards the kitchen and sitting at his table, where his equipment sits in wait. He hears Molly offer John a refill of tea, followed by more footsteps as she too enters him. She lets him know she’s there by rubbing carefully at the small of his back.

"He’s just teasing you," she says quietly, nuzzling at his neck. Sherlock finds himself turning his neck and kissing softly at her head. It comforts him a little, but John’s words echo in his mind.

"I do not _snuggle_. I’m a consulting detective, for Christ’s sake!”

Molly raises an eyebrow. “A consulting detective who is currently whining.”

His only reply is to grunt heavily.

"What are you two doing in there?" John calls. "Spot of snuggling?"

"For God’s sake," Sherlock mutters. Taking Molly’s hand and getting to his feet, pulling her back towards the living room where John is happily slurping at his tea in the irritating way he does. His eyebrows raise a little when he sees both Sherlock and Molly entering the room. Clearly, he has hit quite a nerve with the consulting detective.

"Look," Sherlock says crossly. "There is a clear difference between the concepts of snuggling and embracing one’s partner." He suddenly spins Molly around, and snakes his arms around her waist, resting his chin against her neck. (She doesn’t complain; but what she does do is stifle a giggle.)

"That is a snuggle. Something Molly and I do not indulge in. Is that correct, Molly?"

"It is," she says. She doesn’t have time to stifle another giggle before Sherlock spins her back around and pulls her tightly to him, locking his arms around her shoulders.

"That is a cuddle; that is something I do indulge in when I am feeling particularly affectionate. See the difference?" He spins Molly around again, threading his arms around her waist.

"Snuggle." Once more, she’s spun. "Cuddle. Do I have to make myself any more clear?"

John shakes his head.

He doesn’t have the heart or the patience to tell his friend, the genius Sherlock Holmes, that they’re basically the same.

"So," he says finally. "This missing gun…"

Cuddling or snuggling, it doesn't make a jot of difference. Either way, Sherlock Holmes is hopelessly in love.


	34. Preemptive Measures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Sherlock and Molly (not established) are in the morgue working and Sherlock suddenly tells her he dislikes/hates/doesn't love her. What Molly doesn't know is that he actually loves her but he's trying to push her away.

What had she done wrong?

She sniffed slightly and wiped her nose with her sleeves. It was stupid that she was crying. She was a grown woman, for God’s sake, not a silly schoolgirl! She shouldn’t be hiding in… in a supplies cupboard! She should not be teary-eyed merely because her friend had spoken some harshly honest truths to her.

It was just her luck that same friend was the man she was so stupidly, naively in love with. It was just her luck that that same man had bluntly turned to her, completely out of the blue, and told her that a relationship with him would never work; that he’d inevitably break her heart, so it was better for him to do it now.

That was the problem though; he _hadn’t_. She had long ago given up any ideas of entering into a romantic relationship with the man. In fact, that was what had spurred her on to allow herself to be flattered by Jim from IT’s attentions. And just as luck would have it, he had turned out to be the most dangerous man in Britain—if not the world—as well as completely and utterly obsessed with Sherlock Holmes.

But for him to think that he’d break her? That was probably the one thing that didn’t hurt her. No—what it did do was make her unspeakably angry. Did he think so low of her? Did he truly see nothing more than a waif of a woman who needed to cuddled and kept away from the harsh world beyond the morgue?

Sometimes, she really hated being as small as she was. It led to so many people making so many incorrect assumptions about her. And you’d think that Sherlock Holmes, being the great deductive mind he was, would be able to see past the small breasts and thin lips and nonexistent hips to find the strength that had pulled her through the grief of her father’s death and the grueling years of her study. But no. As he’d proved at _that_ Christmas party over three years ago now, he had defaulted to the most obvious elements and swept it under the carpet. In that bloody mind palace of his, she probably wasn’t even a room or a piece of furniture. She was probably just a tiny mound of dust sat in the corner of some minuscule cupboard. Or something like that anyway.

A firm knock on the door caused her to jump. Quickly, she wiped her eyes dry and scooping her hair back into a ponytail, she opened the door to the supply cupboard.

She was met by the puppy dog eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

And the sight only infuriated her more. He had just humiliated her in her place of work, causing her to cry like an overly-hormonal teenager and now he expected her to fall for his manipulations just like that? She dug her nails into her palm in order to stop herself slapping him one.

"Are you okay?" he asked quietly, the puppy dog eyes widening. She choked back a laugh. He really was that audacious.

"Obviously not," she said, teeth clenched.

His head tilted to the left just slightly as he frowned. He was deducing her. Again. “Why?”

That was new. A disdainful laugh burst from her lips and she aimed a dark glare at him, moving her hands to her hips.

"Oh, well, let’s think. You storm into my - yes, _my -_ morgue, demand to see a body and when I try to help, you turn around and tell me in no uncertain terms that I should give up on thinking that you and I will ever have a chance! But perhaps I should inform you of something, Mr Holmes, I have experienced enough of your bullshit to last me a lifetime, and believe me when I say that any hopes I had of a relationship with you went out of the window a long time ago!” She could hardly believe she was saying all of this, and spilling out all her thoughts and feelings in this way, but dammit, he knew all of this already and she’d spent too many years bottling it all up. She stepped towards him, her courage and fury building to a crescendo. (The fact that he had begun to grin widely only fueled her.)

"But you know what? It isn’t my fault - and don’t you dare claim it is. It’s you, Mr Holmes. You did this to me, sweeping into my lab the way you did, and being all deductive and amazing with that stare of yours. And your coat! Your bloody coat! Do you know how many hours I’ve spent thinking about that damn thing? I’ve probably got the pattern memorized, knowing me. You, Sherlock Holmes, have an amazing mind, and even more amazing body, but god help me if you aren’t the most infuriating man I have ever met!"

Silence fell over them in a hush, and Molly’s words washed over her. Her cheeks flushed crimson, and fresh, hot tears threatened to spill. She had been so caught up in the moment; she hadn’t even stopped to think about what she was saying and its ramifications.

Now she had the rest of the day to do so. (And when she realised she’d have to spend most of that time in the lab with Sherlock, her blush deepened.)

That was why it was more than surprising when Sherlock grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her into a clumsy, but still quite determined, kiss. She squeaked and stepped away. The look he gave her was confused.

"What…? I don’t…" was all she managed to say, even though the questions and thoughts that spun around and around in her head were now akin to a tornado.

"You’ve probably heard of the psychological practices of evasion and diversion."

Molly nodded dumbly, having still not quite absorbed the idea that Sherlock Holmes had kissed her.

"My feelings for you have been growing Molly, ever since the time of my "death". The rapid growth of those feelings did scare me, I'll admit that. After all, I'm not exactly a man who _cares_. Well, not like other people do, at least."

If these were his choice of wooing words, it was rather amusing—and very, very Sherlock. Molly continued to stare at him, blinking slightly. Her lips still tingled.

She dimly registered that Sherlock was still speaking.

"I did try to quash these feelings and thoughts, of course, but they were - are - amazingly stubborn—"

"Shut up."

He immediately trailed off, looking her in a way that betrayed both his curiosity and his amusement. She repeated herself, a little more confidently. He merely quirked an eyebrow.

That was enough. Hooking her fingers around his shirt, she planted her lips against his. He stumbled against her, his lean frame looming over her. A giggle bubbled from underneath her tongue.

"What?" he murmured, but she shook her head.

"Nothing," she said quietly, still keeping a tight grip on his shirt as he dipped his forehead against hers. She let out half of a laugh. "It’s nothing. Just - god, just kiss me." Their lips met for a third - _third?_ \- time in a deeper, less hurried but far more passionate kiss.

She felt her back thump against the wall before she could even realize they were both back in the supply cupboard, but she didn’t care. Especially not when Sherlock continued to kiss at her, his lips tracing down from her lips, across the edge of her jaw, down her neck and collarbone, murmurs of sentences spilling from his lips.

"I tried to keep away - even today - but you Molly Hooper…" He briefly caught her mouth again, and she could damn well  _feel_ the arrogant smirk. “You are far too intriguing to ignore.”

Part of her chastised her. He humiliated her at work! She had to stop kissing him! After all, he was nothing more than a—oh, Lord. Where did he learn to kiss like _that?_ She made a mental memo to ask him later, but that memo went straight out of her head when his body pressed closer to her as one hand caressed the nape of her neck and the other carefully untied her already loose ponytail.

"I like it down," he muttered, more to himself than to her. Clearly, she wasn’t the only one making mental memos. She shut him up with another embrace; he responded immediately, hitching her leg up to his waist. Her breath caught as he delved deeper into her mouth.

"You mentioned something about my coat," he said softly as they pulled apart for air. She laughed quietly, and a red tinge colored the tops of her cheeks.

"You’re a bastard," she said before she pulled him into another, quicker, embrace. "An arrogant, arrogant bastard."

"Stop kissing me then."

"Not a chance."


	35. Midnight Visit. (Dark!Sherlock: Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Dark/Possessive Sherlock. “If Sherlock Holmes couldn’t have Molly Hooper, then nobody should. He would kill anyone who dare to lay a finger on her soft skin, because she was his, only his. And he was disposed to claim her.”

The last time he had been inside this lab was two years ago. Almost subconsciously, his slender fingers toyed with the equipment on the table. It was quiet in the dark, but the sound of approaching footsteps made him pause.

He smiled when the door opened. The woman in front of him—the petite, perfect woman—gasped.

“Sherlock,” she whispered, voice hoarse with shock. He arched an eyebrow.

“You’ve remained observant.”

She closed the door, locking it. So she still trusted him. With a widened smile, he turned away from the work table and moved towards her.

“Does John – does he know you’re alive?”

He only shook his head in reply as his eyes raked her in. Her mouth had formed into a light smile, but her own gaze moved up and down his body, appraising him. The grip she had on the door’s handle tightened.

“You’ve… Sherlock…”

He tilted his head to the right slightly. Her hesitation was rather amusing, in its own way. “I’ve what, Molly?”

“Changed,” she said finally, closing her eyes. “You’ve changed.”

She was backed against the door now. He took one more step, and he loomed over her.

Her breath caught as his hands snaked around her, coming to rest against her hips. Obviously thinking of the memory of another night. His stare remained focused on her, drinking in her surprise, her relief and the fear that lay underneath it.

She was right of course. Two years had changed him. They had strengthened him.

Delicately he lifted his right hand from her hip and he curled his fingers around her neck, stroking his thumb at the base of her jawline. She was so small, so soft, so… fragile. He could break her. Hurt her.

“You are so precious, Molly. Wouldn’t dare to imagine what someone might do to you.”

“But they won’t,” she said, squeezing his arm in a gesture of comfort. “Don’t you see, Sherlock? You can stop running. You can come back.”

Oh, Molly. Sweet, forgiving Molly. A chuckle left his lips, and he tipped his forehead against hers.

“What if – what if I didn’t want to come back? What would you think of me then?”

The surprise and the relief that had once been in her eyes dimmed, and her eyebrows furrowed into a frown. He felt her hands press against his chest, but he pushed himself closer to her.

“What did you say?”

“I won’t repeat the question. Answer me,” he said, trapping her waist with his left arm. Her hand traced from his arm and clutched at his right hand. When she tried to prise him away, he tightened his grip, glaring at her with cold eyes.

Any words she had on her tongue dissipated as she finally began to see the man he had become.

“Sherlock. Get off me.”

His only reply was to smirk. “There was a time when you welcomed this. Begged for it, even.”

“Get off me,” she repeated. The fragility in her voice betrayed her. Good, he thought. Fear made people obedient. He scanned her, and his smirk widened. He had missed that pale skin of hers, and those wide, dark brown eyes, always seeking hope or a little attention. Slowly, he traced at the hint of collarbone underneath her shirt.

The slap she directed at his cheek was unexpected, sharp in its delivery. When he looked at her again, he found that her glare was more enough than to match his.

“Get. Out.”

He considered her for a moment, and cracked a smile. “Not without you.”

With that, he stepped away from her. What happened after that was much like he expected it. She turned towards the door, scrabbling at the door handle in her panic. He leaned against the worktable, arms crossed over his chest as he watched her finally wrench it open. He made no movements to chase after her. He merely waited.

He heard running footsteps. A scream of shock. Scuffling. More screams, muffled this time. A burly minion entered into the lab, nodding once at Sherlock as he did.

“Miss Hooper’s been acquired, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock glanced at his watch.

“Two minutes,” he said coolly. “You’re getting sloppy.”

He waved the lackey away with one hand and turned back towards the laboratory.

The last time he had been here, he had been weak. Unable to face up to his emotions.

Moran’s last words floated at the back of his mind.  _The Hooper woman_ , he’d panted, blood dripping in torrents from his lips,  _you like her. I’ll fuck her. And I’ll break her. She will die screaming._

The bullet through his brain soon vetoed that idea.

Strange though, how one man could change another man’s perspective on things. But he supposed he should’ve thanked Moran, for if he hadn’t much such threats, he might not have “seen the light”. As it were.

Still smiling, he swept from the laboratory, locking the door behind him. He was strong. And so was she. He rubbed lightly at his cheek. Her fortitude just now had displayed that. But there would always be that one element; that human fear deep inside that she would be taken from him in some way. It was a fear that needed to be eliminated. She was his. He was hers.

If anyone, anyone at all, tried to hurt her now, they wouldn’t live out the day.


	36. Deal Broker. (Dark!Sherlock: Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Sherlock Holmes, the world's most feared and cruel criminal mastermind has fallen deeply in love with the sweet and kind hearted pathologist Molly Hooper. He will do anything to protect her and to ensure her happiness.
> 
> I made this a kind of sequel to 'Midnight Visit'.

Somewhere in the distant corner, a leaking pipe dripped water on the cold concrete floor. A faint, fading scent of blood filled the air and seeped into the crumbling brick of the wall. The door to the warehouse opened, and a dark figure stepped through. With his hands tucked into his trouser pockets, Sherlock languidly trailed his cool, blue-eyed gaze over the scene before him. He gave a drawn-out sigh.

"Molly, do stop glaring. You know this is for your own safety."

Her arms bound to the back of her chair and her pretty, pretty mouth covered by black tape, she could do nothing but squirm. He liked that; meant she wasn’t going anywhere. Almost casually, he reached into his inner jacket pocket to bring out a lighter and a packet of cigarettes; Molly wriggled more against her restraints. Anger flashed in her eyes.

“ _This?_ " Sherlock asked with an amused raise of his eyebrow. "After everything I’ve subjected you to, this is what you get angry about? Well, at least you have principles."

When her glare deepened, he gave a small shrug and stuck a cigarette between his lips. His eyes locked once more onto hers, and his mouth grew into a smile as he deftly flicked open his lighter and held it against the end of his cigarette.

Sherlock took a brief drag and moved forward again. His footsteps echoed against the ground and Molly’s glare was pleasingly fixed on him; it did not leave him once. Casually, he pushed at the dead body at her feet with the tip of his toe. Poor, eternally romantic Tom. Almost as soon as he’d found out, he’d come straight to the rescue, bursting into the warehouse, all guns blazing (in a purely metaphorical sense of course), demanding Molly’s release. It had been far too easy for the hired thugs to kill him.

"You wouldn’t have been happy with him." Sherlock moved his gaze back to her. "I hope you know that."

Molly tilted her head at him, and raised a disbelieving eyebrow. Sherlock gave out a chuckle. She was _adorable_ when she was cross.

A yelp escaped her as he tore the tape from her mouth, followed by a heavy panting as she gathered back her breath. Her eyes were as fierce as ever. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse, ragged. Quite lovely.

"What – do you – _want_ with me?”

Sherlock shrugged and crumpled the tape in his hands. “What all men want when they’re in love.” He dropped the tape to the floor and crouched low, settling his hands against her thighs. He didn’t miss the slight colouration of her cheeks and minute dilation of her pupils, both of which she quickly suppressed. Pity.

“Do you know what causes love, Molly? On a scientific level?”

"Anyone who has Google knows that."

He chuckled. She was awfully courageous when bound. If she wasn’t so averse to the idea, he might’ve thought of experimenting with her; if only to see just how far that courage extended. Carefully—after all, he didn’t want to break her—he raised a hand and touched it against her cheek. He traced his thumb against the hollow of her cheekbone and smiled.

"You’re not happy, Molly. I want to make you happy."

"Why?" Her voice had a surprising tone of confusion to it. Perhaps the gravitas of the situation had finally begun to press upon her.

"Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood to face the intruder, a thickly set thug he hadn’t bothered to learn the name of.

"What is it? I am in the middle of something," he said, though his focus remained purely on Molly. His fingers gently traced against the loose tendrils of her hair to touch at her ponytail, and he swiftly freed her hair, letting those lovely, lovely curls of hers fall down past her back and her shoulders. He softly drew his thumb across her bottom lip before he looked back to the thug.

"We managed to find Magnussen, sir."

"And?"

"He – he got away. His bodyguards opened fire on us."

Sherlock gave a heavy sigh. Magnussen could’ve been such a good asset for him—lazy, in terms of actually doing any crimes, but he was ruthless and he was clever. He looked to Molly.

"Excuse me a moment."

He reached into the inner lining of his jacket again, and the barrel of his gun flashed against the sharp glow of the warehouse lights. The thug, threatened with the loss of his life, became predictably and pathetically remorseful and a stream of apologises and pleas tripped from his mouth. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh, do shut up. Raise your hands."

Hesitantly, and still chanting his apologies, the thug obeyed.

The muffled sound of the bullet was soon overcome by the thug’s cries of pain. Sherlock stepped forward, his gun in his hand as he looked over the man, who had collapsed to the floor in a weeping mass, his fingers clasped around his bleeding hand.

"I shot your non-shooting hand. You’ll still find work as – whatever it is you do. Now go and get it bandaged." The thug didn’t move, and with a sigh, Sherlock delivered a light kick to his side.

"Go!" he urged, and the thug, coughing, scrambled up to his feet and out of the warehouse. After he had tucked his gun back into his jacket, Sherlock turned and moved back towards Molly. His smile dropped however, when he saw her flinch away from him.

"Let me have a guess – you don’t like what I did with that thug back there. Believe me Molly when I tell you it was only a matter of time."

"What, before you shot his hand?"

"He had an irritating personality. But let’s not worry about him; let’s worry about us, shall we?"

The fear in her eyes disappeared with that question, to be replaced by something resembling hate. He’d have to curb her of that.

"There is no _us_ ,” she hissed.

“So the night after my death – the night I fucked you until you _screamed_ my name – never happened?” He gave a slight chuckle, and settling his hands against her thighs once again, he leaned forward until her lips almost touched his.

“Tell me you’re not excited by this, Molly.” His voice was soft, lowered. He dropped the briefest of kisses to her mouth, smiling as he pulled away from her. “Tell me you’re not remembering how that night felt.”

She didn’t reply, but her hatred for him radiated from her in waves. No matter. Hatred and desire often intermingled. He opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it.

“Do you want me to be happy?”

“I thought I’d made that perfectly clear,” he drawled, his fingertips playing at her curls.

“If you truly wanted me to be happy,” Molly said, her voice calm, “you’d let me go.”

Sherlock’s smile faded into a frown, and he leaned forward again, trailing his fingertips against her curls.

“You know I can’t do that – because you wouldn’t be happy, Molly. You wouldn’t be safe.”

Her gaze was determined. “What, because I wouldn’t be with you?”

“No. Surely you must know I hold you in higher esteem than that. No – the reason you wouldn’t be happy is a very simple one.” He bent his head to kiss at her cheek, his breath warm against her skin. “If I let you go, you will live in a constant state of fear.”

The determination in her eyes flickered, and the fear she had so skilfully hidden thus far became briefly prominent. He may as well as take the opportunity presented to him. Smile widening, he tapped gently at her nose.

“You see, I can’t just let the woman I love _go_.”

She swallowed thickly. “You’d have to watch me.”

“24 hour surveillance, bodyguards. Hired assassins at every door, making sure none of my rivals decide to execute you. Perhaps even some CCTV, if I feel so inclined.” He touched at her chin, forcing her eyes to lock with his. Her obvious hatred for him was re-establishing itself, but there was something else there too; a delicious realisation of defeat.

“For the foreseeable future Molly – whatever decision you make,” he said softly, tilting his head a little. “You and I are bound.”


	37. Tracked Down. (Dark!Sherlock: Part 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: More of my Dark!Sherlock universe.

For weeks, months, however much time, she had been running. It didn’t matter how long. It had all, in the end, boiled down to this. Panting, the wind whipped her hair against her features, the waves thrashing and crashing underneath the rotted surface of the pier. Headlights engulfed the entrance to the pier, but Molly continued to run, her skin frozen and brittle but the gun still warm against her palm. The end of the pier loomed ahead of her, and she juddered quickly to a halt, her hand flying out to grip at the rail. The ocean’s water underneath her was dark, churning and violent.

“You know…” His icy drawl cut through the wind. “I’ve wasted a lot of my resources tracking you down.”

Leaning forward against the rail, she laughed; the sound was high and cold. Almost manic. “Sorry to inconvenience you.”

“Far from an inconvenience, believe me. Almost fun, actually.”

“But not quite?” she asked, tilting her head to glance at him over her shoulder. His silhouette moved forward. His curls, thick and dark, fluttered in the wind. His hands were tucked tightly behind his back. Her fiancé, her friends; he’d had every last one of them killed, all so he could win at this relentless, reckless pursuit of her. It stung. The knowledge of what he’d done—of what her fear and her need to survive had _caused_ him to do. She swung herself around, the gun aimed squarely at his head.

Now, it was his turn to laugh.

“Go ahead,” he said over the sound of the battering wind.

She stepped forward. “And your death doesn’t frighten you?”

“No,” he said, gazing down at her. The casual tone in his voice terrified her. He brushed a little at the material of his coat. “I am, after all, only here to make you happy, Molly.”

Her breathing hardened. So much time, so much running and he hadn’t stopped. Not once. Nothing would ever stop him. Nothing except…

She dropped the gun from his head, letting out a heavy breath. Keeping her eyes locked on his, before he could say a word, she pressed the gun into his palm, wrapped his fingers around it and jabbed it up until it touched against her chin. Surprise flickered across his face, soon swept away by that touch of a smile.

“You want me to be happy, don’t you?” she asked, breathing hard. There would no greater happiness than to be away from him. And if that meant her death, then so be it.

She felt it, his grip loosening. The gun sliding away from her skin. She grasped at his hand again, and shoved the gun back against her jaw. She couldn’t let herself lose this.

“You exist to make me happy.” A phrase he'd used so often when she'd been his prisoner, a smile its accompaniment. In the dark she had escaped from him, from those words, and tried to run back to reality.

He looked impressed at her echo of his words.

His expression turned calm as he stared, but his eyes blazed. She held her breath. He pressed the gun harder against her jaw. His lip curled into a scowl. A low hiss escaping his lips. A glimmer of her humanity bubbled away against her thoughts. Was she truly to let herself put her life in his hands? Especially when the outcome of such an act was so clear? He tilted her chin with the gun and her mind was made. Yes, yes she was.

The safety of the gun clicked, but she did not flinch.

“I want you to, Sherlock.” She licked her lips. “Shoot me. _Kill_ me.”

 _Let me go._ That was her plea. The ocean continued to roar as silence fell; a barrier between them. Her eyes fell closed, and a shiver wormed its way up her spine, spilling out as a gasp, when she heard him reach forward and felt his fingers cup at her jaw and sink into her long, tangled curls. There was another click, and her hollow heart sank.

Foolish. To think she could ever believe Sherlock Holmes capable of an act of true selflessness. The cold steel of the gun barrel fell away from her. He drew his fingers back from her curls.

“Everyone must be selfish,” he drawled, “at least _once_ in their lives.”

She let herself open her eyes. His right hand palmed at her shirt, his fingers winding against the soft fabric. He pulled her—urged her—closer to him. She stumbled against the force of him.

“I was never brought up to be selfish.”

His mouth twitched into a keen, lopsided smile. With the gentle familiarity of a lover, he touched at her jaw. “That’s no way to live.”

Against her will, her heart hammered. Run away. Every sense screamed at her to run away. She could run, she could dodge. But running had entailed death. Not her death, but the death of so many others. Running was a risk, a selfish risk. His words echoed in her mind. _No way to live._

Her skin was brittle from the cold. He tossed the gun onto the pier's surface. She didn't hear it land.

She closed her eyes, and with a soft sigh, she welcomed his arms around her.


	38. Foot Massage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from tumblr user morbidmegz: Molly comes home from a terrible day at work, and immediately takes to lying on the bed. She is woken up by Sherlock giving her a lovely massage.

Imagine a list. Filled to the brim, it’s one of those lists that seems to never actually stop. Just as the last few items on that list are completed, ten more are added to it.

Only the final tick of the clock that signals the end of shift can release you from it.

For Molly Hooper, today has definitely been one of those days. Her list seems to have been at least a mile long, and to add to that, Stamford has been taken ill and his temporary replacement has turned out to be the crabbiest, most dour person Molly had ever met.

It’s with a great sense of relief then that Molly steps inside 221b, drops her bags to the floor and traipses to the bedroom. Her routine shower and change of clothes and half an hour of crap telly can wait. What can’t wait is sleep. Peeling her cardigan from her and dropping it to the floor, she kicks off her shoes and crawls onto the bed.

Her head hasn’t even hit the pillow for a full minute before she’s deeply asleep, splayed out against the duvet.

* * *

She wakes with a start. Part of her wonders how much time has passed. The rest of her wonders why she can feel hands pressing against her now bare toes. With a soft and sleepy moan, she turns and looks down to the base of the bed. Sherlock grins back at her as his fingers deftly smooth over the heel of her left foot. A small laugh escapes her as she buries her face into the pillow.

"Hello," she mumbles.

Deciding to forgo conventional greetings, her husband lets go of her feet and crawls onto the bed. When she feels him lie beside her and drop a kiss onto the top of her head, she lifts her head to face him.

"How could you tell?"

"Well, considering you’re wearing the same clothes you were wearing when you went to work this morning, and that your hair isn’t wet and the television remains off, it’s all quite obvious."

"Show off," she says before pressing a quick kiss to his mouth. She feels his smile widen, and his hand moves towards her hip as he begins to slowly caress it.

"How did your case go?"

He shrugs, resting his head against the pillow. “The leads in London have gone cold. It looks like John and I will have to go to Dorset for further investigation.”

His brow furrows. “You don’t mind do you?”

Molly shakes her head. She’ll miss him, but he loves his work and restricting Sherlock from his work means inevitable boredom, and the poor wall has taken more than enough abuse in its lifetime.

"How long do you think you’ll be gone?"

"A week. Two at most."

She cracks a smile, lazily tracing her fingers from the edge of his jaw to his collarbone, gently playing with the edges of his shirt.

"I’m sure I can cope for that long," she says finally. Sherlock’s smile widens again and he pulls her closer, nuzzling his face close at the gap between her neck and shoulder. She nestles against him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

"I’ll just have to give you something to think about whilst you’re away," she murmurs before kissing at the edge of his jaw.

The replying laugh Sherlock gives her is positively filthy.


	39. Sherlock's Confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from tumblr user laikayanel: Sherlock kills Toby for an experiment. His death may have been an unintended side effect or not.

"Molly, could you pass me that sample there?"

Silence.

"Please. _Molly_.”

But there was still no reply. Just a brief, venomous glare in his direction.

"I said I was sorry."

This time, she didn’t glare. No—what she did was turn on her heels, declare bluntly that she needed coffee and storm from the laboratory. John blinked slightly and looked to his friend, who merely cleared his throat, shifted slightly and reached forward to grab the sample himself.

John didn’t have even a moment to show his amusement before Sherlock spoke.

"Don’t. Say. A word."

"In the dog house then?"

"A little more than that," Sherlock murmured, but most of his attention remained on his work.

"She’ll get over it. It’s Molly, she can never hold that much of a grudge—"

"I killed her cat."

John blinked slightly and stepped forward to tilt his head slightly. “You did what?”

"Toby. I killed the damn thing. I honestly didn’t mean to - it was just an experiment. She should’ve _told_ me he had a heart defect.”

"I didn’t know cats could have a heart defect," John said, brows furrowed.

"Yes, well. They can. Anyway, she should’ve told me."

"Ever entertained the thought that maybe you shouldn’t have experimented on her cat?"

Sherlock merely grunted in lieu of speaking.

"You’re going have to apologize," John said after a moment.

"I already have!"

"How? In your typical Sherlock I-say-I’m-sorry-but-I’m-really-not way?"

"I cooked."

"And you think that makes everything okay?"

"No. She threw it away anyway," Sherlock said quietly. John sighed and pinched at the bridge of his noise and stepped back, sighing.

"Sherlock, you made a mistake. It’s going to take more than your bloody cooking to get her to forgive you."

"So what the hell do I do?"

"God, I don’t know! Try to be a bit less - you? Maybe. I’m not here to solve your problems."

Sherlock huffed and got to his feet. Annoyingly, John was right. He couldn’t rely on someone else to solve this. He had to solve it himself.

* * *

Molly sighed and shucked off her lab coat, stuffing it inside her locker before she shook her hair from its ponytail. Sherlock’s puppy eyes flashed up at her momentarily, and she couldn’t help but sigh again, tutting to herself. If she didn’t love the man so much, she might’ve murdered him. He was just so dense sometimes; so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he didn’t give a thought to others—regardless of their species. She knew she should never have been stupid enough to leave him alone with Toby. He’d only ever viewed Toby as a subject, something to be examined at the first opportunity.

It was somewhat ironic then that he hadn’t killed Toby through dissection or chemicals but merely through the use of a car alarm. He’d been experimenting for a case he’d claimed later that evening; had been trying to see how much pressure it would take for a car horn to be heard from two miles away. He had explained this all throughout the evening, tripping over his tongue to apologize over and over again to her.

He’d still ended up sleeping on the sofa. And if she had her way, he’d stay there for as long as she felt angry at him.

She was distracted from her thoughts by the sound of her phone’s ringtone. After a quick search through her many pockets, she retrieved her phone and answered.

"Molly?"

She frowned, checked the phone ID and clamped the phone back to her ear. “Greg. Why are you ringing me? Has there been a breakthrough in the case?”

"Um, no. It’s Sherlock. He’s at the police station."

She leaned against her locker, glancing up at the ceiling. “What’s he done this time?”

"Nothing. But he’s claiming he has."

"Okay, wait. Greg, you’re going to have to explain this a little better."

A heavy sigh came from Lestrade. “I can’t believe I’m asking this… but do you have a cat?”

Her grip tightened around the phone. “I _had_ one.”

"Sherlock’s claiming he killed it, and - I swear, I do not get paid enough for this - he wants me to arrest him for it."

Lestrade didn’t even get to finishing his sentence before Molly had let out a guffaw of a laugh, clamping her hand over her mouth.

“He - he _what_?”

"He wants me to arrest him on suspicion of murdering your cat."

Molly heard Sherlock scoff loudly. “There’s no suspicion about it! This is a full confession!”

"And I’d take it seriously if you weren’t gabbling on about a cat - wait, no, that’s my phone, you can’t—"

"Shut _up_ Lestrade," Sherlock snapped, apparently now having taken possession of Greg’s phone. "Molly, there’s no need to worry. I’m doing the right thing. _Stop laughing_!”

"Sherlock, you’re in—" Another guffaw escaped her and she clutched her stomach to try and contain herself. It didn’t work. "You are demanding that - Jesus - that the police force - arrest you."

She fell into peals of laughter. Her hysterical state only increased as Sherlock began to lecture her on the proper ways of receiving the news that her boyfriend was about to arrested.

Eventually though, she calmed herself and as she daubed carefully at her eyes, she squared her shoulders and gave a quick sigh. “Listen. There is no need for you to get arrested. What happened with Toby was a mistake - a stupid one, but a mistake nonetheless. It wasn’t a crime.”

"I know! I just - I wanted you to stop being so angry at me," Sherlock mumbled, his voice low enough for only Molly to hear.

Molly shook her head slightly. “Sherlock, you killed my cat, and I loved Toby. So of course I’m going to be angry. I still am, frankly. You’re just going to have to wait.”

"I understand," Sherlock said. "Just know that I am truly sorry. I didn’t know he was under the car."

"I know. And I suppose I should’ve told you about the heart defect before."

There was a silence as the two considered each other’s words.

"Does this mean that I... don’t have to sleep on the sofa anymore?" Sherlock asked eventually, almost sheepish in his tone. Molly raised an eyebrow but still smiled. He could probably do with another week.

"No."

"But Molly, that’s completely unfair—"

Sherlock was left in the police station, unable to finish his sentence and looking perplexed at a phone screen. She’d actually hung up on him. Him! He hadn’t had that happen to him since he was a teenager. Greg stood beside him, arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

"Sleeping on the sofa, eh?"

He glowered. “Shut _up._ ”


	40. Lovers' Meeting. (Wild West AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a prompt fill.

During his time in the small American town he resided in, Mr Holmes had become accustomed to a certain routine. Anything that disturbed that routine was usually swept away from his mind and swiftly written off as utterly irrelevant and not worth a jot of his time.

Sometimes, however—just sometimes mind you—a disturbance would take place which would most certainly be worth his time. Often, those disturbances took the form of a mystery, or perhaps an outlaw the sheriff was having some particular trouble with.

The disturbance that distracted him now though, was neither of those things.

Strangely enough, it was a woman.

A woman who had somehow come to find herself sat upon his lap.

* * *

The morning started off perfectly well, and in its usual manner. He woke, washed, got dressed before he headed off to the town’s local stables. Owned by his brother, the stables were a place greatly familiar to both of the Holmes’, as they had often taken out the horses to ride when they were children. Mycroft had given up the habit as the years wore on and his waistline grew wider, which left Sherlock on his own. He preferred it that way. Silence, coupled with the familiar pace of a trotting horse, helped him to think.

That morning, he hadn’t had much to think about, worse luck. In the end, he’d satisfied his racing thoughts with a silent recital of the county laws since 1850.

Overhead, the trees threw dappled shade over the forest path he had chosen for his morning ride. The sun was hot this morning, and soon enough, he was forced to rid himself of his heavy overcoat and roll up his sleeves to obtain just a little coolness in the hot, humid air.

A crack in the trees sounded. Perking up, his hand immediately flew to his side, his fingers touching at the revolver permanently holstered there. (After all of his dealings with outlaws in the past, it seemed like a sensible precaution to own one.) He felt the temptation to call out, but when he continued to hear nothing else but the whispering of the trees, he chose to remain silent.

Until another crack filled the air, louder this time. His hand clutched tighter around his revolver, and he pulled at the reins of his horse, easing it to a stop.

"Who’s there?" he asked, squinting to see through the dense forestry over him. "This is Sherlock Holmes. Reveal yourself!"

It wasn’t just one crack this time—no. It was a series. One after the other, in quick succession, until a slip of pale blue dropped from the trees with a shriek, falling and falling until, quite without warning, she dropped straight into his lap with a _thump_.

He reacted without prior analysis. Dropping the reins of his horse and letting go of his revolver, his hands flew to her sides and caught her at her waist.

After that, he had little to no idea what to do. The woman in front of him was small in height and light in weight, whilst her hair was a mixture of honey and chestnut. Similar to her hair, her eyes were brown, but a much darker shade and her cheeks glowed crimson. He swallowed a little, uncharacteristically nervous. Perhaps it was because he’d never really encountered a woman dropping into his lap before.

His mouth moved, even though he didn’t want it to. “Good morning.”

"Good morning," she repeated back to him, apparently just as dumbfounded as him by their respective situation.

"I…"

"You… you saved my life - sir," she said, adding the title when her gaze flicked towards the revolver at his hip.

"I did, didn’t I?" he said slowly. Her eyes really were quite beautiful. No, he thought, shaking his head. He couldn’t be distracted. He had to do what he was supposed to. Namely, he had to find out why she was here, in his lap of all places. _  
_

Yet no questions came from him, and from her, there came no explanations. All that could be heard between them was the quiet of the forest.

This was ridiculous. He decided that after a few moments. A woman had dropped straight into his lap, and here he was acting like he was nothing more than a simple, vacant idiot! It simply wouldn’t do.

He had to get rid of her before he embarrassed himself any more.

Of course, perhaps there was a better way of getting rid of someone than dropping them onto the ground without any warning.

"Well," he said as he cleared his throat. "You seem to be uninjured. I’ll bid you good day."

The tentative smile that had been on her lips for the entirety of their encounter thus far slipped into a deep scowl and she huffed.

"No thanks to you, _sir_.” With that, she jumped to her feet and continued down the path, her head held high in the air.

It was when she was almost out of sight that he realised he had been watching her go.

"Stupid," he muttered, turning his head and squeezing at the sides of his horse and setting off in a trot in the opposite direction.

For the rest of his journey, he tried to resume his silent recital.

He was severely hampered in this task by the vision of a pair of warm, wide brown eyes and a tentative smile.

* * *

He returned to town soon after, unfortunately still bothered by those brown eyes and that smile. What was it about that woman? He had never been so… plagued by this kind of thing before. And now, because of her clumsiness, he was acting like any of the cowboys who drooled over Miss Adler when she did one of her nightly shows. The rub came with the fact that he didn’t even know her name.

At least he had been able to deduce a few things about her in the short time that had made up their encounter. She was a schoolteacher, according to the style in which she dressed—smart, but not trying to draw attention—and she was clearly new to the town because she hadn’t fully recognized him and had only addressed him as “sir” when she’d noticed the revolver. So far, so simple. It was all just a case of avoiding the schoolhouse—that was all.

Or at least it would’ve been if he hadn’t been greeted by the sheriff at the town gates and escorted to his office to be introduced to a certain brown-eyed, thin-lipped lady.

Molly Hooper. The town’s new schoolteacher and just as his luck would have it… pathologist.


	41. Molly's Follower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Molly never once feared for her life. Sherlock made sure of that.

Being in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes definitely had its ups and downs. Sometimes it was tough, and over the last two years, she had sometimes had to remind herself that he wasn’t as experienced as her in the whole “having a relationship” thing, but overall, it was pretty wonderful. (The sex wasn’t too shabby either.)

However, the bad points could often be very bad.

Such as today.

She didn’t know why, but she could’ve sworn she was being followed. There weren’t any big clues as to who exactly it was that was following her. There wasn’t a man in a trench coat and sunglasses peeking around the corners like there usually would be in the movies, but there was a definite feeling that she was being watched. Anyone else might’ve brushed off the feeling as them being silly, but over the last few years, Molly had become a lot more adept at separating paranoia and genuine worry (she had Sherlock’s fake death to thank for that).

She tried to forget about it. She continued with her shopping, hummed along with the Christmas songs blaring out of shop speakers and regularly ticked off the items on her list.

Yet the strange feeling, akin to feeling the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, continued.

In her mind, she had narrowed it down to one probable suspect: a tall man, he was thin as a beanpole with curled hair cropped short. If he hadn’t followed her into almost every shop she’d been into, she might’ve written him off as just another shopper. He was casual enough, she had to admit that. But that didn’t mean she was ready to write off her feeling of unease.

So she decided on a little test. It was easy enough; one that Sherlock had taught her early on in their relationship. It just involved diving into somewhere she would never normally go: Anne Summers, of all places. A blush crept quickly across her cheeks as she lazily walked around the shop, avoiding eye contact with any of the assistants but kept a close eye on the shop entrance.

Sure enough, the man followed in a few moments after, apparently nonplussed by her choice of store.

The two of them stayed in the shop for a good few minutes more until eventually, it was Molly who practically sprinted out of there, her evidence collected. So the man was following her. Who was he? A hired thug? He seemed much too thin for that. Assassin, maybe? Her heart almost stopped at the thought. Could she, Molly Hooper, take down an actual, real assassin? Maybe. Probably, if she remembered all of the defence techniques Sherlock had taught her.

But there was no reason why she shouldn’t give it a go. Quickly, she dived down into an alleyway and came to a stop and listened out, waiting.

It only took a footstep.

Sherlock’s advice swum through her head. _If you know you’ve got the advantage, aim for the obvious. Don’t try to outsmart them early on._

A hand gripped at her arm. She flew into action. Dropping her shopping, she wrestled her arm from the man’s grip, spun round to lift her other arm and her elbow came into contact with a nose.

To her eternal surprise, the man didn’t fight back like she was expecting. Instead, he collapsed to his knees with his hands covered over his damaged nose.

"OW!" he cried, almost like a whine. Molly stood where she was, dumbfounded by what she saw. Weren’t assassins like… really ruthless? That was what she had been told anyway. The man continued to whine for a few more seconds before he looked up at Molly, his brows furrowed.

"What did you do that for?!"

"I’m sorry—" Molly began automatically, but she shook her head. "Wait! You were _following_ me!"

"Of course I was! I’m your bodyguard!"

Molly blinked slightly. Wh-what? Bodyguard?

Of course. Sherlock. Just a couple of weeks before, they had been at St. Bart’s, the two of them quietly working when he’d, quite out of the blue, asked Molly if she’d ever been mugged. At the time, she had assumed it was for a case.

The man had by now gathered his composure and he got to his feet. Molly quietly handed him a tissue. With a small “thank you”, he delicately cleaned at his nose. He stuck out a hand. Molly hesitantly took it.

"Hi. Tom Shinwell."

"Hello, Tom," Molly said quietly. She intended to put the subject to rest with that, but one little thought niggled at her and it just wouldn’t leave.

"Why did Sherlock think I needed a bodyguard?"

"Well," Tom said with a shrug, "he didn’t give much of a reason. Though you don’t need to worry—he’s only employed me for about… nine months, I think?"

"Nine months…?" Molly echoed, frowning. Why would Sherlock employ someone for so long? Unless…

She paled, and looked to Tom. “Excuse me. I think I need to get to Baker Street.”

* * *

Sure enough, an hour later, Molly was sat on the bathroom toilet with the largest grin she’d ever had plastered across her face and her eyes locked onto the result in front of her.

The only time she looked up was when she heard the front door slam. Bolting out of the bathroom, she barreled straight into her boyfriend of two years and greeted him with a kiss. He grinned.

"You figured it out then?"

"No. I broke my new bodyguard’s nose—thanks for not telling me about him by the way—and he told me. Well, he didn’t exactly tell me…"

She was stopped mid-ramble by the feeling of Sherlock’s hands smoothing around her waist and pulling her closer to nuzzle at her cheek.

"Are you happy?"

"Deliriously," she replied, kissing him again as she gently palmed at her stomach. "Merry Christmas, Mr Holmes."


	42. Therapy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Married!Sherlolly. Sherlock and Molly have been fighting, and Molly suggests couples therapy. Sherlock agrees, but they continue to fight. In the middle of a particularly bad fight, Molly suggests divorce.

"We can’t do this anymore." The words shock him, even though really, they shouldn’t. He should have expected this. It’s a miracle they’ve got this far, frankly. What does surprise him is _where_ she says it. They’re in an office—a therapist’s office, of all things. It’s dull, all brown skirting boards, neutral, calming art and cream-coloured walls. The sofa where they sit is cheap, bought at a sale five years ago.

At least it looks professional.

The therapist sat opposite them frowns, leaning forward. “Why do you say that, Molly?” His concern is faked; contractually obligated. The passion he had for his job long dissipated.

She curls herself tighter on the sofa, touching her forehead against her knees. The sigh she lets out is shaken. It hurts to know she’s holding back her tears.

He assumes she’ll mention the fighting. Their lack of contact. Or the way they barely touch now, even when they’re in bed. That’s why her answer surprises him.

"I don’t know."

The therapist’s answer is a standard one. “Molly, if you wish to make any progress, you must learn to communicate.”

Her head snaps up. The glare she gives the man causes Sherlock to belt out a laugh. It sounds strange in this room of conformity, and earns him a look from the therapist.

Yet Molly cracks a smile.

"Okay," she says, "I’ll communicate. I’ll talk. I’ll talk about how he just ignores me, how he’s more interested by his experiments than anything I have to say—"

Her gaze is on him now. He restrains from returning it. Instead, he looks away. He focuses on the geometric pattern of the carpet, recounting the table of elements in his head. He prepares for the diatribe; the outburst of hate that she’s been holding in for so long.

It doesn’t come. But what does come pains him all the more. It’s not hatred that is spurring her; it’s an altogether different emotion. One he once termed a vicious motivator. Listening to her, he realizes how apt that descriptor was.

She speaks of the silence that has plagued them for months; a silence that is only broken by arguments and passionless sex. It isn’t love anymore, she claims. (His pride wants to deride that and argue against it. He doesn’t.) The therapist nods as more and more words flood the room, hesitant and still skirting around the issue they should really be confronting. The fact that despite years of trying, they can’t get the one thing they truly want.

Strangely, that’s what angers him. Even now, when she’s promised to communicate, she isn’t. She’s holding back.

Yet he says nothing. Just listens.

* * *

It’s dark by the time they leave, a flurry of winter wind around them. He touches at the small of her back as she steps inside the car, and he can feel his fingers burn with the heat of her. It strikes him that he misses that heat. He misses the way he would feel her warmth radiate from her, her bare breasts pressing against him as she locked her arms close around his neck, dropping kisses against his cheek and his jaw as they moved together.

He misses it desperately. It’s a craving—and one he can’t satisfy. (Truth be told, he always craved her, even before he knew what it was like to miss her.)

The journey they make is engulfed in a familiar silence. Lights pass over them, lighting up her face in an all-too harsh orange glow. The quiet seems to echo as they slow to a crawl in a rare spot of late night traffic. He finds himself thinking back to 221b, their long-forgotten flat. He’d thought he’d make his life there as the eternal bachelor people had long marked him to be, but then she had come along, with her cat and her brightness and her searing intelligence, and had changed that.

Four years, they stayed there. He began to see the appeal in growing old with someone, especially if that someone was Miss Molly Hooper. He began to think that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be _so_ bad to see a child (or two) running through 221b, especially if those children were Miss Molly Hooper’s.

They moved out to the suburbs soon after their wedding. A summer wedding, their friends and family attended. Despite his usual aversion to doing so, Sherlock even went so far as to make a speech. He mentioned Molly’s father. Mentioned how much he loved her.

Mary cried. John pretended that he wasn’t. Molly smiled and thanked silently him with a kiss. The wedding was perfect. Beyond anything she could’ve dreamed, she said later that evening with her naked body curled up against his, her skin glistened with sweat and her eyes bright. Sleep took her soon after, but he remained awake, his arms wrapped around her and his eyes focused on the gold wedding band that was now fixed on her finger.

Slowly, he’d smiled and kissed at her forehead as his hand stroked against her softly curled hair. Sherlock Holmes, eternal bachelor, had married. It was a fact that astonished, terrified, thrilled and contented him.

"I miss Baker Street," she murmurs now, her hands clenching tightly around the top of her knees. The orange glow has faded now as they begin to make their way through the back roads of London. He nods, glancing towards her as he reaches for her hand. The edges of her lips hint at a smile, yet it doesn’t take.

They both know what her words mean. She knows what she has yet to say.

But she won’t say it.

Not yet.

* * *

He usually dominates whatever room he’s in. In this house, this far too big house, he’s small. He feels tiny.

They indulge in a hollow routine when they arrive. As they enter, she pushes past him, heading into the kitchen. (She doesn’t bother to shed her thick jumper, but she drops her bag against the staircase.) He takes his time, looping his scarf off from around his neck and shrugging off his coat. He heads into the living room, and settles into the sofa, hearing the familiar sounds of her cooking, her low hum floating down the hallway.

It’s broken by the sound of china smashing. He’s moving before he knows it, and he runs into the kitchen. He stops at the doorway to find her on the floor, on her knees with shattered china scattered in front of her. She tidies it away, tears welling up. He wants to scoop her up, to smooth her hair and hold her close against him. He wants to let her cry until every ounce of her sadness has gone and he can once more see her smile.

He steps forward, looking down at her. She doesn't look at him. She just continues cleaning up, dumping the broken pieces into the sink. He knows that anything he says will be useless.

So he says the obvious. “You broke the bowl.”

"I didn’t mean to!" she snaps. Her gaze falls on him, and her eyes—those warm pools of brown—are cold, devoid of that trademark brightness.

It snowballs from there. The argument begins in the most trivial of territories, with her saying that if he didn’t let her do all the housework, stuff like this might not happen. He snaps at her, telling her she tries to do too much.

It escalates. She reveals a painful truth: she does too much because she has nothing to do. She’s the one who quit her job after all. The one who sacrificed her career to start a family.

He yells now, bellowing that he shouldn’t be blamed for her rash stupidity. She screams back at him, her fists clenching. She struggles not to punch him as torrents of insults stream from his lips, then hers. (He secretly marvels at her restraint.)

Soon enough, the room fills with their animalistic screeching.

"How am I supposed to know?!"

"You’re a consulting detective! You make it your job to know!"

"There’s a difference between observing and being telepathic!"

"You only observe what you want to know!" Even when she hits the white heat of rage, her honesty is searingly acute. "You just assume I want what you want!"

"Well, what _do_ you want?!" he bellows.

"A divorce, okay?! I want a fucking divorce!"

He stills at that. So does she. Although they’ve prepared themselves for it ten times over, it’s somehow a blow anyway. He counts down the seconds in his head as they stay deathly quiet, his gaze locking on her, and her gaze flitting everywhere but him.

He’s up to 80 when she speaks.

"Sherlock…"

He looks down; his fingers are looped around her wrist. They both stay where they are for a long, long moment.

He’s frozen; more numb than he’s ever felt.

His mind fires on all cylinders. He wants to bellow at her; to plead with her; to beg her. He wants to do everything, but he can do nothing. He can just… stay there, mind on automatic. He sees things about her. He sees that she was planning on making a salad; that she split salad dressing on her jumper, and that’s why she got rid of it; that she didn’t take a shower today, even though she said she did. Things, superficial things that can be picked up by anyone who has enough skill.

What he can’t see is whether she really means what she says.

He finds himself speaking, the words rough on his tongue. He has to speak, he knows he does. “Molly.”

 _Stay_ is the meaning.

She shakes her head, biting at her bottom lip. “I can’t. I just can’t. I can’t keep waiting. We’ve been trying for two years, and nothing.” She stands, shaking her head again. His grip tightens on her wrist.

"We’ll stop trying, if that’s what you want." Begging, pleading. It's all spilling out of him in a truly pathetic display. "Just don’t leave. Please."

Her hand finds his face, caressing his cheek. She presses her forehead against his. Her breath is cool against him.

Silent words are being spoken, all told via the tears on her cheeks and her shaking breaths. He knows because he’s speaking them too.

Her hand falls from his cheek, but he can’t let her go. Not yet.

He takes her hand, kissing at her palm. He can feel her sigh softly. He bends his head. Their lips find each other.

The kiss they fall into is hurried, clumsy, desperate, wanting… needy. Their gasps short and sharp, they stumble back. He presses her against the worktop as their hands explore one another. He is drowning in her warmth, and it’s overwhelming. He breaks away from her, kissing at her jaw, her neck and her shoulders.

"I love you," he gasps. "I love you, I love you…"

She wraps her legs tight around him, murmuring the words back at him. His heart lifts every time she says it, because it isn’t a necessity as it has become. It isn't an afterthought, tacked on at the end of a conversation. For the first time in months, it’s genuine.

They should talk of course; they should communicate. He, she, _they_ know that. But right now, right here, they want, they need, one another. Clothes are shed, and they move against one another, their breaths and their fingers entwined as they read each other. He’s craved her for so, so long and so he savors her. Every gasp, every moan is something he stores away. He treasures them, memories that will never be deleted.

They stay with one another, their chests heaving. The quiet between them is different now. It’s fragile, but _united._

It’s broken by a sound he has grown to forget, but when he hears it, it’s a sound that he welcomes. It’s her laugh. She presses her forehead against his chest, her hands gently stroking over his shoulder blades.

"Clean slate," she whispers. "Agreed?"

He smooths his palms over the small of her back, kissing at the top of her head. It makes him smile to know that her heat no longer burns him. It electrifies him.

"Agreed."

* * *

From then on, it is a clean slate, for both of them. They finish their therapy, and they attend their appointments at the doctor’s.

It’s at the fifth appointment that their doctor informs them of the news they thought they would never receive.

They still fight from time to time, but they always make it up in the end. (He’s learnt the art of apologising.)

And, as Molly’s belly grows and their baby develops, the distance that was forged between them lessens. Sex turns into love again, and their house becomes a home.

It’s as she said: a clean slate.

It’s exactly what they needed.


	43. Mr & Mrs Watson. (John Watson/Mary Morstan)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU inspired by the film "Mr & Mrs Smith". Not a prompt fill. Just my strange brain.

Air swirled through the room. John Watson crouched behind the bullet-ridden sofa and took a breath, the cold steel of his gun heavy against the palm of his hand, dust and goose feathers lay scattered around him. Turning his head to the right a little, he listened. A slight shuffle of a footstep, that was what he could hear. Moving to the right, and now to the left? No, forward. Towards him.

"Still think you can kill me?" the voice sounded, followed by a laugh. John gritted his teeth but remained silent. He had to wait until the very last moment. Just 10 more seconds. He counted down in his head.

_10… 9…_

The footsteps continued.

_8… 7…_

A heavy sigh sounded.

"Sending an English guy to kill me. The government should know better."

John clenched his free hand. The man—a runner of a brutal drug cartel— had violated international law. It would be expected if he were to throw a few insults towards his country in there too.

_6… 5…_

The man began to whistle, his voice low and searching. John could just see him now; crouched on the ground, machine gun in hand, trying to sniff him out—quite literally.

_4… 3…_

"Come out, come out!" the man sang gaily. "Wherever you are."

_2…_

John rolled his eyes as he deftly attached the silencer to the barrel of his gun. He never had much time for dramatics. It was time to move.

_1._

Pulling himself up, he swung his arm around. The man rose his gun to fire, but he was too slow. John Watson had already fired three bullets into the man’s heart, ribs and lungs. The man’s smile faltered, and his gun dropped to the ground. Slowly, he stumbled and fell forward, falling against the ruined sofa.

Clearing his throat, John brought out his phone and attached it to his ear. A bored, cold voice immediately answered.

"Is it done?"

"Just as you required. But you might want to send in the cleaners."

"How’s the sofa?" Mycroft asked coolly.

"Ruined," John said, stepping over the dead body and glancing around the destroyed room. "Target got a little trigger-happy."

"Damn. A clean-up team are on their way, and a plane is waiting for you at the local airfield. I kindly suggest you get moving."

John chuckled to himself as he hung up. Turning on his heels, he stepped out of the hotel door and shut it behind him. He glanced at his watch, and nodded. Two in the morning. He still had time.

* * *

"Dice the red meat and put it into the frying pan. They should—"

Mary sighed and paused the video as she slowly began to chop the meat in front of her. This was going to be a good night, she told herself. She and John would sit down, and they would talk. For the first time in months, they would actually talk to one another. It wouldn’t be banter, or the excruciating thing they called “small talk”. They would, for once in their relationship, communicate. That she was sure of.

Or at least, she was sure. Right up until she heard a thump upstairs. After pausing for a moment, she continued to chop, still listening out. There was another thump, shorter and quieter this time. Anyone else might have mistaken it for their imagination. Mary however, knew better. One mysterious thump could be written off as a coincidence. Two thumps could not.

Stepping away from her food preparation, she wiped her fingers on her apron and took out a set of keys from her back pocket. Crouching down, she unlocked the very bottom drawer and carefully opened it. Taking one of the guns tucked away neatly inside it, she attached the silencer and closed the drawer, quietly locking it before she rose to her feet.

Without making a sound, she slipped out of the kitchen and down the hallway towards the staircase. There was nothing but silence as she gently ascended each step, but she was taking no chances. A creak of floorboards caused her to pause, tilting her head. The sound had come from directly above her—bedroom. Whoever was there, they had to be in the bedroom. Slowing her breaths, she continued up the spiraling staircase, her gun still holding steady in her palm.

Finally, she reached the landing. Quickly, she moved towards the bedroom, standing straight against the wall. _The last moment_ , she reminded herself. _Don’t go charging in._

Her breathing was almost still as she continued to listen. She could hear shuffling, as if someone was searching. She narrowed her eyes, but fought back the temptation to snort. A burglar? That was who she was dealing with?

The voice of her father—her mentor—echoed in her head. _Assassins are thieves too._ She had to keep her guard up.

Gently, she moved forward and took a hold of the door handle, pushing the door open. She peered into the darkness. Whoever the intruder was, they hadn’t noticed her. Yet.

From what she could tell at the angle she was at, it was definitely a male. The shoulders were too broad to be a female’s. The man was bent over her nightstand, rummaging through the open drawer. Mary smiled. Now she knew exactly who they were and why they were here. Quickly, she reached towards the light switch and flicked it on, aiming her gun towards the intruder.

As expected, the man whipped around, their hood falling from their face as they raised their gun to meet hers. After a moment, he broke into a smile.

"It’s like my boss says Miss Morstan: first to you gets the prize."

It was him who shot first. Instantly, Mary dived into a roll, onto the ground. The bullet crashed into the painting above her and a loud shatter signalled its fall.

Mary sighed as she scrambled up. She’d liked that painting. Taking off the safety, she again aimed her gun squarely at the man’s chest. Rather admirably, he didn’t flinch.

"So, why do you want to kill me?" she asked after a moment.

The man sighed and gave a small shrug.

"My boss wants you dead, pure and simple."

"A lot of people want to kill me," she said. "It’s a drawback of the job." With that, she fired a bullet squarely into his chest.

* * *

John opened his home’s front door to be met by the homely smell of cooking, and he smiled. Stepping down through the hallway, he moved towards the kitchen to knock lightly on the door.

"Come in," a light voice called. He smiled and entered to find his wife, Mrs Mary Watson, standing at the oven, stirring—what looked to be—red meat around the bottom of a frying pan.

"Hello you," she said, flicking a smile at him. "Good day at work?"

"Can’t complain. Had a difficult client though," he said as he settled into one of the kitchen chairs. Mary nodded, but said nothing. John sighed. So, that was their conversation for the evening over with. It wasn’t a bad life, he reflected. He loved Mary, and she clearly loved him… but there was something missing. Just as he was holding something back from her, she was holding something back from him. (Of course, her secret probably didn’t involve breaking international law and risking the lives of almost hundreds of agents.)

A yawn escaped him and he found himself stretching out against the chair. Mary frowned.

"You shouldn’t let them work you so hard."

He blinked. "What?"

"You know, at the office. Ever since you got that promotion, I’ve hardly seen you."

"I know. It’s murder," he said with a chuckle. "But it pays well."

Mary nodded slowly as she switched off the hob and poured the now brown meat into another large pot. “Dinner should be ready in half an hour or so. Why don’t you go and watch television until it’s ready?”

John shrugged and got to his feet. “Why not?” With that, he moved out of the kitchen. Only when she was sure her husband had well and truly headed into the living room did she dart out of the kitchen and jog up the stairs, knocking lightly on the bedroom door. It was opened and she was met by a pale, well-suited man.

"Are you nearly done?" she whispered.

The man nodded. “Target is being disposed of. We’ll be gone in about five minutes. Your husband won’t even know anything happened.”

"And the painting?"

"Irreplaceable. You’re to tell him you damaged it while cleaning and had to get rid of it."

Mary sighed, but shrugged all the same. She headed downstairs and into the living room, where she found the television switched on and John already asleep, his head lolling back and his chest heaving with slow breaths.

Mary smiled and shook her head as she curled beside him and rested her head against his chest. It was annoying they hadn’t had the chance to talk like she had originally planned, but that could wait for another night. A small thud sounded above them, and John snorted awake.

"What was that?" he said blearily. Mary gently tapped at his chest with her hand and snuggled closer to him.

"I’m sure it was nothing, sweetheart."

John only grunted in reply and fell back asleep, wrapping his arms around her. Mary smiled and closed her eyes.

Safe in one another's arms for the moment, the two assassins slept peacefully.


	44. Realised Desires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Sherlock, after seeing John and Mary raising a child and feeling longing for his own family, seeks out Molly a few days before her wedding to confess long secret feelings and grab his last chance to be with the girl who mattered the most.
> 
> For this prompt fill, just pretend the characters live in a fantasy world where “The Sign of Three” was the final episode and “His Last Vow” never happened.

When he entered the flat, he was struck by the homely scent of bread. Mary came bounding from the kitchen, flour flecked on her cheek and a kitchen towel hung over her shoulder.

"Good morning Sherlock," she said brightly.

"Morning," he grumbled. "Though it’s hardly good."

Mary merely giggled and squeezed at his shoulder. “Want some coffee then?”

"Oh, I think he needs more than coffee. Especially with a certain wedding around the corner," John said, stepping into the hallway with his son Harry—now barely more than a month old—in his arms. He grinned at Sherlock, who merely returned the gesture with a brief grimace. He didn’t quite know the source of his unpleasant mood, but it was not eased on seeing John and Mary playing happy families. Tell the truth, the gloom that was plaguing him wasn’t new. It had been hounding him ever since Mary and John had returned from the hospital with the bundle of blankets that they had soon named Harry. It hadn’t however caused him this amount of… irritation (or as others would term it, "strife"). Harry burbled in his father’s arms and seemed to direct a smile at the gloomy Sherlock—but not even the smile of a newborn child could lighten the consulting detective’s mood.

"Have you seen Molly yet?" Mary asked, taking Harry from John and hitching her son close onto her hip, bouncing him a little. She glanced to Sherlock. "Or even spoken to her?"

"I haven’t had cause."

"Sherlock," Mary said with a raising of an eyebrow. "You’ve had plenty of cause. You just don’t want to do it. Do you?"

Sherlock didn’t reply. It frankly didn’t help that Mary was right. He had had great cause to speak to her; and more than enough motive. Yet he couldn’t. Engaged women were off-limits. He had told himself that ever since childhood, and he couldn’t back away from his principals just because of one mousy, brown-eyed, endlessly intriguing pathologist. No—she wasn’t intriguing. She was just Molly.

Molly Hooper, pathologist at St. Bart’s who gave him body parts and helped him with his experiments and his cases even when he was an arse, and all with that utterly charming smile.

 _Stop it_ , he chided internally. _You cannot think that way.  
_

He shouldn’t think this way. He shouldn’t. Molly Hooper certainly wasn’t thinking this way.

* * *

Molly stood in front of the mirror and frowned. Perhaps that wasn’t exactly the way in which a bride who was six days away from marriage should look at herself when she wore her wedding gown for the first time, but frown Molly did. She twirled slightly, admiring the way in which the fabric moved with her. It didn’t, however, lift her heart the way in which it was supposed to. She sighed and stared at her reflection again. Perhaps it would look better if she let her hair down? She gently twisted her hair from its ponytail and let it fall over her shoulders. It made her look a little more… relaxed, yes but it didn’t make her feel any more comfortable. Gently, she traced over the material. It was cool against her fingers, perfect in every way. Too perfect.

That was the problem she realised. It was indeed too perfect. Too ordinary. Too conventional. And she didn’t want conventional. She wanted… God, but she didn’t know _what_ she wanted. Just… not this. Not the soft sheen of silk that was currently between her fingers anyway.

With another sigh, she reached around and scrabbled at the buttons uselessly. How had she got into this dress again? Via a bloody miracle, probably. That or sheer determination. Well, if that was what had got her into the dress, it would get her out of it.

After five minutes of swear words, yelling and bending of limbs, all she had to show for her efforts was a severely reddened face and one undone button.

The doorbell ringing was what caused her to stop. Picking up her skirts, she stomped from her bedroom and towards her front door, wrenching it open.

"Oh." That was the word to come out of her mouth. It was followed by a hesitant, awkward smile. The returning smile on Tom’s lips was reassuringly the same as hers.

For a few long, long moments, they stood there; Molly in her wedding dress and Tom in the standard shirt and jeans.

"It’s bad luck to see me in my wedding dress. Before the wedding I mean," she added for needless clarification. Tom nodded.

"Molly - can I talk to you for a second?"

* * *

It turned out to be more than a second. For an hour and a half, Molly sat on her sofa in her wedding dress and listened as he talked; he told her that he’d been holding out on this for months, but he needed to tell her now, before anything else happened.

Another half an hour later, and Molly was stood at her door, hugging Tom goodbye as a friend, clad in her wedding dress but with her ring finger bare. In truth, it was a relief to both of them. They had rushed into things, Tom had said, and Molly had given a heavy sigh before she had nodded in agreement. After a lot of to-ing and fro-ing and overlapped apologies, they had decided to remain friends, and concluded that the paperwork could be sorted out on another day.

When she was finally alone again in her flat, Molly gave out a contended sigh and leaned against her doorway. Her ever faithful feline Toby stared at her, his tail swishing with apparent confusion but that only caused her to smile more and she bent down to pick him up, letting him curl against her chest. That was when she let out a groan.

She may no longer have had a fiance, but she still had a wedding dress to get out of. With another sigh, she carefully dropped Toby to the floor and skirted back into her bedroom and resumed her battle with the buttons.

"Bloody things," she muttered to herself after a few more minutes of work.

Another quick rap on the door sounded. Molly frowned and let her hands drop down to her sides. The knock happened again. With a huff, she gathered up her skirts and shuffled out of the bedroom and towards the front door again.

"Ah," she said when she opened it. The man always did have impeccably strange timing. "Hello."

Sherlock pulled his Belstaff tighter around himself and cleared his throat. “Molly. Can I…?”

"Yeah — yeah, of course. I was just er — trying on my wedding dress."

"So I can see," Sherlock mumbled as he stepped through, shoulders slouched like a sulking child. Molly bit back a laugh. This entire situation was rather too good to be true really; like something out of a romantic comedy. Sherlock stood by the entrance, watching as she closed her front door. Molly merely moved back into her bedroom. After a few moments, she heard footsteps follow on. It was quite funny really, knowing something Sherlock didn’t.

It enabled her to have a little bit of well-needed fun.

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “I’m having some trouble — with the buttons. Can you help?”

Only after swallowing slightly did Sherlock nod stiffly and step forward. Molly turned her head, watching her and Sherlock’s reflections in the mirror.

Gently, he gathered her hair and twisted it over her shoulder, his gloved hands making hesitant contact with her skin. His hands moved to the back of her dress, where he deftly and carefully began to undo each button. She dimly wondered if he had a lot of experience undoing women’s dresses, and the thought caused her to let out a giggle, covering her mouth with her hands.

In the mirror, Sherlock’s gaze flicked up to meet hers. She saw his eyes dart towards her now bare left finger. Her smile widened but she said nothing. Neither did Sherlock. Instead, he continued with his task, diligently taking his time with each one.

"Did it cost a lot?" he asked after a moment. "This dress?"

"Mm-hm," Molly said distractedly, more focused on the fact that Sherlock’s gloved fingers were now heading towards the lower part of her back. Her smile fell slightly however, when he drew his hands away.

"The buttons are too fiddly," he explained, removing his gloves and dropping them to the floor.

"Of course," she said with a nod. Sherlock resumed his task. Now there was no barrier between her skin and his fingers now, it seemed even more intimate than it had done before. He skimmed at her back, and she gave out a small shiver. Sherlock grinned and stepped closer. She could almost feel the warmth of his breath.

"Almost done," he said, his voice a low whisper. She bit on her lip to stop herself from giggling with happy anticipation. He apparently could sense this, for without saying a word, he bent his head and in a gesture far more tender than she had ever seen him do, he pressed his lips to the back of her neck. She let out a soft moan, and with that, her wedding dress fell to the floor.

Sherlock’s clothes followed soon after.

* * *

Two hours later, Sherlock lay back in Molly’s bed, his now sweaty limbs tangled within her bedclothes and his arm wrapped tightly around her shoulder. Molly lay her head against his chest and let out a tiny giggle, biting at the top of her thumb. Sherlock glanced at her.

"What?"

"I’ve only just broken off my engagement. Some people might call this a rebound."

Sherlock’s frown deepened. “Rebound?”

Molly waved a hand. “You know - _rebound_. It’s when someone engages in a sexual relationship to get over another, more long-term relationship.”

"Sounds like a useless social construct to me," Sherlock said with a contemptuous sniff. "At any rate, it’s irrelevant in this situation."

"And why’s that?"

"Well, considering your ex-fiance was basically a carbon copy of myself, one might say your engagement was a rebound from me."

Molly’s only reply to that was to hit him playfully with a pillow and tell him he was a bastard. Sherlock laughed and took hold of her by the waist, rolling them until he was atop of her. Molly joined in with his laughter, only stopping when he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Am I still a bastard?" he asked, his lips still ghosting over her skin.

"Of course. But you’re _my_ bastard, and that makes all the difference,” Molly said, looking all the world for someone who was well and truly happy.

Sherlock felt himself smile as he stroked at her hair and pressed another lingering kiss to her lips. It was rather astounding really. Now that he had the knowledge that his pathologist was well and truly his (just as he was hers), he knew that he wouldn’t want to part with her.


	45. Groomzilla.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the following post made by tumblr user strawberrypatty: _"I want Molly and Sherlock to get married just so Molly can be all, “Tiny wedding, please. I don’t need a fancy dress. Oh, I’m rubbish at flower arrangements.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _And Sherlock is all, “Our serviettes shall be swans! I’ll fold them all myself. Molly, you’ll look great in an Empire waist… OMG, MYCROFT, NO I DO NOT NEED TO HIRE A WEDDING PLANNER!”"_

Molly tucked her feet under her legs and took a sip from the mug of tea in her hand as she took a gaze around the living room of 221b.

Ever since the night where she had said “yes” to Sherlock’s proposal, it had evolved from a place to sit and read a good book whilst Toby stayed curled up beside her to something more resembling a war room. Only it wasn’t battle regiments being discussed, but what type of serviettes would go best with silver cutlery.

Currently, there were four stations—Sherlock’s term, not hers—set up around the living room. On top of the fireplace mantel (Billy the skull had been temporarily relegated to one of the bookshelves), five types of serviettes were all set out, and underneath those were post-it notes which—as far as Molly could tell—had marks out of 10 for various categories. (Though what categories could be considered when choosing serviettes, Molly didn’t really know.) Another of the stations had an ornately made reconstruction of four possible wedding venues. The third one was stationed behind her, and was just list after list of guests, separated into categories and sub-categories. The fourth was focused on what seemed to be dress material, with designer sketches and pictures pinned to the opposite wall.

Molly wisely decided not to be enlightened on what all of this meant, and instead basked in her ignorance and continued to drink her tea.

Her fiancé however, remained utterly indifferent about her state of mind and continued to bound from one station to another, muttering to himself. Occasionally, he’d turn his head to glance at her and blurt out one single word, as if he were filing away in his mind palace. Molly reflected that anyone else might’ve been intimidated by the intensity of this preparation—especially when considering she had only been engaged to the man for two weeks—but after living and being in love with Sherlock Holmes for a little under four years, Molly had long ago grown to find his eccentricities actually quite endearing. Even when he decided to stand on the sofa, almost glaring at the list of potential guests.

"My, haven’t you been busy bees?" Mrs Hudson said with a light laugh, stepping into the flat. Sherlock grunted in reply, but Molly smiled and got to her feet, following on as Mrs Hudson headed into the kitchen and began to do the washing up. Molly decided to help her by drying.

"To be honest," she said after a moment. "It’s more Sherlock than me Mrs Hudson. I’m just — enjoying the spectacle."

"It’s not a spectacle!" Sherlock’s voice called from the living room. "It’s a very meticulous process!"

"I know there’s such a thing as bridezillas, but do you think there could ever be a groomzilla?" Molly said as she continued to dry and put away plates and mugs.

"Dear, if there was, I think your Sherlock fits the bill."

Molly smiled, but said nothing. She didn’t have a chance, for Sherlock’s voice had already echoed through the kitchen once again.

"A wedding planner?!" he said, incredulous. So he’s on the phone with Mycroft, Molly thought and a smile flicked at the edges as she continued to listen. _Do you really think that low of me? I don’t need help, Mycroft! I said before; I am not a child!_

Mrs Hudson stifled a giggle and softly shook her head.

"I’d better go and see if I calm my fiance down," Molly said as she put away the last plate and moved back into the living room, where she found Sherlock still pacing and still ranting to his brother on the phone. Molly sighed lightly and leaned against the doorway as she watched him.

Another minute passed before Sherlock finally wrenched his phone away from his ear, stuffing it back into his jeans pocket before he moved back towards the fireplace and began to examine the five serviettes in front of him. 

"Sherlock—don’t you think this is all a bit…?"

He looked quickly at her, his fingers steepled under his chin. “A bit what?”

"Over the top. I mean, we don’t have to do all this."

"Yes we do."

"We really don’t," Molly insisted. "I mean, I can barely get my head around the idea of flower arrangements and rehearsals." She gave a sigh. "Can’t we just have a small, intimate wedding? I won’t even have to wear a dress."

Sherlock’s brows furrowed.

"Strange. You’re not fussed about our wedding. Why aren’t you fussed?"

His expression almost made Molly laugh. It was like she had wounded a small puppy. Slowly, she stepped towards him and looped her arms around his neck as she stretched herself up on tiptoe.

"I’m not fussed because I’m too busy basking in the knowledge that I’m getting married." She pressed a quick, tender kiss to his lips. "To you of all people."

Sherlock’s lips twitched with a hidden smile as his arms found their way around her waist. He nuzzled into her neck, mumbling against her skin. She frowned, pulling back from him.

"What did you say?"

Sherlock gave a sigh. “I said: I want to make sure you’re happy.”

"I am happy, Sherlock," Molly said before she kissed him again, longer this time.

True, it was sweet that he was trying to make her happy but Molly knew the man stood in front of her. Planning a wedding stretched the mind and demanded ultimate focus in multiple areas at simultaneous times, and it was in those situations that Sherlock Holmes thrived. It sent a warm thrill through her as she realised that by trying to secure her happiness—although he had already done that a million times over during the last four years—he was indirectly making himself happy. Whether he would realize that, Molly didn’t know, but the thought pleased her nonetheless. So it was with that fact that she gently drew a hand through his curls and kissed his cheek.

"I’ll leave you to it. Tell me if you need anything."

She was about to leave when Sherlock grabbed at her hand. She turned.

"I do need something, Miss Hooper."

"And what’s that?"

His smile turned wolfish. “You.” He didn’t leave it another second before he had picked her up onto his shoulder and was striding towards the bedroom.

"Mrs Hudson!" Molly called between peals of laughter.

"Already leaving dear!"

Molly was thankful for that. It was clear that the things Sherlock Holmes had planned for her weren’t things that would be sanctified by the church.


	46. Molly's New Nickname. (Drunk!Sherlock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Drunk!Sherlock.

Molly had looked forward to a quiet night in. The banging at the door indicated that would most certainly not be happening. When Molly wrenched it open however, she was met not by a cool and intense gaze but blurred, narrowed eyes and an expression that wouldn’t look out of place on a lost puppy.

"Oxygen!" Sherlock blurted out, slumping against the door frame. Her brows furrowed. He tried again.

"Oxy-Oxygen! No! Oxy-oxy somethin’…"

Molly raised an eyebrow. His eyes lit up.

"Oxytocin! That’s it! Oxytocin."

In a gesture she was sure he thought to be debonair and elegant, he took a stumbling step towards her, a lopsided smile on his mouth.

"You, Molly Hooper, are oxytocin. That’s what you are."

Molly nodded slowly and allowed him to cup her cheek. Gently, she touched at his hand and kissed his palm.

"Of course I am, Sherlock. C’mon now - let’s get you to bed."

With a degree of difficulty, she supported his weight (why were drunk people always so much heavier?) and steered him towards the bedroom. He dropped onto the bed with another uncharacteristic giggle and proceeded to make a mess of taking off his shoes—a mess that only ended in him stroking the wooden floor and mumbling about the time it would take for smoke inhalation to take place. Molly sighed and knelt before him, quietly beginning to unlace his shoes. Sherlock let out a whine as he leaned back.

"What is it?" Molly asked, slipping his shoes off from his feet.

"Should’ve… _should_ marry you…” Sherlock muttered, touching at his neck. Molly smiled and got to her feet, pressing a tender kiss to his lips.

"You did," she whispered, sinking her fingers into his hair. When he narrowed his eyes in disbelief, she took a hold of his hand and held it up for him to see. His golden wedding band shone in the evening light.

"Oh!" he said and he looked to her, his expression having switched from lost puppy to happy puppy. "I’m cleverer than I thought."

"Yes you are. Now go to sleep."

Sherlock petulantly shook his head, his hands wandering towards her hips before he buried his face into her waist. “Want you. You’re warm.”

"I know," Molly said softly as she pushed Sherlock onto the bed and, with a degree of effort, shifted him so he was stretched out. She turned to leave, but before she could react, she found herself falling back onto the bed and being pulled towards the sleepy drunken pile of limbs that was her husband.

"Oxytocin," he murmured again, nuzzling his nose against her cheek and he dropped a kiss onto her neck before he slipped into sleep. Molly sighed, but couldn’t help but smile.

After all, there were far worse nicknames someone could have.


	47. Sherlock's Lady Friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: John and Mary sit Sherlock down for a good and proper talk about he and Molly are perfect for each other, but Sherlock tries to refuse to admit it...

"No."

"Yes."

Sherlock stood at the window of 221b, studying the bustle of the street outside. Behind him on the sofa sat Mary and John, the two of them wearing equally knowing smiles. Sherlock sighed and lolled his head back towards the ceiling.

"I don’t fancy Molly Hooper."

Mary snorted. “Yes you do.”

"No, I think you’ll find that I don’t," Sherlock insisted as he stepped away from the window and threw himself into his old chair, which creaked in protest. John sighed.

"Just... _admit_ it. You fancy Molly - it’s obvious to everyone."

"I don’t fancy Molly Hooper. _Fancying_ people is for schoolchildren and morons."

"Oh, of course it is," John said with a sigh. "That fact must have slipped my mind."

The rest of their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs Hudson, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits as usual. She smiled at John and Mary as she bustled around the living room, pouring out tea for Sherlock. She inquired after their daughter and chattered in her usual way. John only rolled his eyes and took a sip of his tea.

"Oh!" Mrs Hudson cried, just as Mary was in the process of telling her all about Harriet’s progress. "Before I forget. Sherlock dear, do you think you could keep the noise down tonight? Don’t get me wrong, it’s wonderful you’ve got yourself a lady-friend, but my favourite programme’s on, and I really don’t want to miss it."

As John did a spit-take that wouldn’t be out of place in a cartoon and Mary gulped in surprise, Sherlock grinned and put his tea to one side.

"We’ll try our best," he said smoothly. "Promise."

Apparently now contented by this, Mrs Hudson departed. After some silence, Mary cleared her throat.

“Lady-friend?”

The answer to that came with the sound of the bedroom door opening and shutting. As one, John and Mary turned their heads and watched as a small figure, clad in a dressing gown that skimmed the floor with sleeves that fell past their hands, shuffled sleepily from the bedroom and into the kitchen. Sherlock’s gaze remained on John and Mary as he spoke.

"Molly, could you come here a moment?"

The figure now known as Molly Hooper nodded blearily and moved forward. Sherlock turned his smile towards her.

"Are you going to say hello to John and Mary?"

Molly gave a short yelp and her hands flew to her mouth, her cheeks flushed crimson. Sherlock chuckled, rose to his feet and stepped towards her. His hands settled on her wrists and an increasingly dumbfounded Mary and John watched as their friend carefully—one could say lovingly—drew Molly’s hands away from her face, whispered in her ear and kissed her soundly on the lips.

"I thought…" John started, but he found he couldn’t finish, as he was now almost catatonic with shock.

"Yes, John. I did say I didn’t fancy Molly Hooper. That’s because I don’t. What I feel for her is much deeper than that." Sherlock turned his head to look at his friend.

"Problem?"


	48. Master of Puns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Mycroft finds out his sister-in-law is pregnant before anyone else does. He gets a little enthusiastic over the thought of being an uncle, in his own way.

Although Molly had attended many of the Holmes family dinners during her relationship with Sherlock, this was perhaps the strangest one she had experienced yet.

It was the fault of Mycroft. Usually at these types of things, he would pick at his food and occasionally threaten to start a war whenever his mother began to discuss (what he believed to be) a particularly boring subject. This time however, Mycroft seemed to be fully engaged with the conversation, chatting airily with his parents whilst he sipped at his wine and took regular bites of his roast dinner.

"Yes, terrible business about the Miller daughter, I’m sure Mother. But her marriage was only in its infancy, after all, so I doubt there’ll be too much damage," Mycroft said with a smile. Molly frowned as she stabbed at another roast potato. Although he was smiling at his mother, she couldn’t help but feel that the elder Holmes brother’s comment had been directed at _her_ in some way.

Violet Holmes gave a sympathetic sigh. “But think of the children. They’ll have two addresses now. And they’re so young too.”

"Practically babies," Mycroft said, nodding slightly.

"Divorces happen all the time," Sherlock said shortly, quickly losing impatience with his family’s idle chatter. "And why are you so interested in the Millers, dear brother of mine? I believe they were on your list of boring subjects last year."

Mycroft shrugged. “I admit I was a little bit immature, yes. Some might say I was… childish, even.” Another comment Molly was sure was directed at her. Sherlock frowned and he circled a hand around Molly’s free one, his thumb subconsciously stroking over her silver wedding band.

"I’m sure she’ll back on her feet in no time at all," Gregory Holmes said brightly as he rose to his feet. "Anyone for some more wine?"

"Is it vintage?" Mycroft inquired, but his father shook his head.

"Only got it in today, I’m afraid."

"Ah, so it’s a rather youthful wine."

Gregory nodded. “The vintage wine I’m keeping for a special occasion.”

Mycroft considered this for a moment before he gave a quick shrug. “Some might consider this a special occasion, Father.”

Sherlock sighed. “Mycroft, what are you talking about, this is a—” He stopped short, glanced towards Molly, back to his brother and back to Molly again, where his hand shot out and covered her wine glass. When she spluttered for an explanation, he continued to glare at his brother.

"You complete and utter arse. You could’ve said earlier!"

Mycroft smiled innocently. “I was simply waiting for the right moment.”

After a moment of silence, Molly cleared her throat and tapped her husband on the shoulder. “Okay, Sherlock. You’re going to have to update me. Why are we cross with Mycroft? I mean, I get that you’re normally cross with him but—could you please get your hand off my glass?”

Sherlock shook his head, still glaring at his brother. “Not possible.”

"Oh, don’t be silly," Violet said with a wave of her hand. "Let your wife drink her wine, Sherlock."

Mycroft turned his trademark thin smile towards his sister-in-law. “Molly, I wouldn’t become too cross with your husband. He’s only being his overly protective self.”

"I still don’t get it."

The elder Holmes looked back to his young brother, and arched an eyebrow. Sherlock _humphed_ slightly and looked to his wife. A hidden smile twitched at his lips and his gaze dropped momentarily towards her stomach before he looked back to her.

"Molly, it seems that we are to have a baby."

Slowly, Molly nodded as she looked around at the shocked faces sat around the table—except Mycroft who merely looked utterly pleased with himself—and she swallowed slightly.

"Oh. Baby. Okay. Right."

There was a small _thump_ on the floor as Molly quietly fainted.


	49. Approval Needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired from a post by tumblr user arandelle. Unfortunately, I can't find the exact link at the moment, so this story will have to do.

"Ooh, Sherlock - before I forget - I’m off shift at 12."

"No you’re not."

Molly frowned, tilting her head in the direction of the consulting detective. “I am, actually.”

"You have a date," Sherlock said bluntly. "It’s a lunch date, with Ted from Resources. You’ve spoken to him four times before, the last time being five minutes ago where—"

"Where I told him to pick me up at quarter past!" Molly said impatiently. "Now, have you quite finished?"

Sherlock shrugged, looking from his beloved microscope to her. “Your date, Ted from Resources. Married four years, expectant father but planning a divorce. Thinks you’ll have sex on the first date. Not an advisable companion.”

Molly’s mouth dropped open, and a flush of embarrassment grew quickly over her cheeks. Eventually, she spoke.

"Fine. Okay. If you say so."

She departed from the lab; only to reappear ten minutes later to brightly tell Sherlock that she was free to assist him.

For the rest of that day, the other members of the lab staff noticed that the usually dour consulting detective walked with a slight spring in his step.

* * *

The next day, Sherlock was already in the lab when Molly entered. In one hand, she held a cup of coffee and in the other, a small white business card. On seeing Sherlock, she frowned.

"Lab assistant was easily intimidated," Sherlock explained as he swiftly stood up and snatched the piece of paper from Molly’s fingers.

"Hey!" Molly snapped, but when she tried to reach for the card, Sherlock deftly sidestepped her as he continued to examine the item in his fingers. It was a number, and a name: Gary Stevens.

Molly cleared her throat a little. “He’s a barista. About my age. Nice smile.”

"Forget him," Sherlock said after a moment, throwing the number quickly into the bin. "He’s used to giving out his number - for God’s sake, what other use would a barista have for a business card? Really, Molly?"

Molly shrugged, but didn’t bother to retrieve the discarded number. “Maybe I just like the attention.”

"Then seek attention from people who aren’t morons," Sherlock said as he fished his phone from his jacket pocket and began to fire off a text. Molly rolled her eyes.

"It’s pretty difficult to do that when everyone I meet is a moron - according to you at least."

Sherlock swept past her. “Look harder then. Of course, knowing you, you could be given a whole line of good men and pick out the only rotten one.”

Molly let out a quiet growl of frustration, glaring at Sherlock’s departing back. He could be such a dick sometimes, it was a struggle to remember how, when or why she’d fallen in love with him.

"What kind of guy _should_ I date then?”

The lab door swung shut as Sherlock turned back and stormed towards her. Without a word, he clasped her head in his hands and pressed his mouth to hers. Molly felt all of her breath leave her lungs as her mind went dizzy with the surprise. When he did pull away from her, she could only gasp. He grinned his trademark grin.

"I think I might be a likely candidate. Don’t you?"

With that, he gave his signature wink-and-tongue-click and exited the lab. For a long while, Molly stood where she was, frozen.

Yes. It was certainly difficult to remember why, when or how she had fallen in love with a 6 foot man-child consulting detective, but he had definitely given her a heck of a reminder.


	50. Triwizard Tournament. (Potterlock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Some more Potter!lock.

There had only been one previous occasion in which the Triwizard Tournament had found itself with four champions. Considering that the Dark Lord had returned on that occasion, no chances were taken when the Goblet of Fire spat out another that dangerous fourth name. Weeks of inquiries and investigations took place, and during that time, the four champions began to strike up a bond of some kind.

There was a girl from Beauxbatons, who went by the name of Soo Lin Yao. Like many of the pupils from Beauxbatons, she was pretty and delicate and soft spoken. As such, many of the students of Hogwarts and Durmstrang had quickly assumed she would be the one to take last place. The Durmstrang champion, one Henry Knight, had support from his peers, but despite that, he wasn’t particularly strong, and rumors abounded in the Hogwarts common rooms that he wasn’t entirely “there” either, as he had been caught more than once muttering incantations and spells under his breath. The third champion was Mary Morstan, a Gryffindor who was in her seventh and final year. She was friendly and warm, but that only served to hide a staunchly and fiercely loyal streak.

The discrepancy only came in the presence of Sherlock Holmes, the fourth champion. Similar to his fellow champions, the Ravenclaw was in his seventh year but that was where the similarities ended. Where the others either smiled or cheered when their name had been spat from the Goblet of Fire, Sherlock had caused quite a stir by swearing loudly. It had only been by the prompting of Molly that he had finally stood and accepted his place in the Triwizard Tournament, which, after many weeks of inquiries and investigations and the culprit was found (Sebastian Moran, a sixth year and severe troublemaker) and expelled, was about to begin.

* * *

The first task had been difficult. Even Sherlock had had to admit that. However, via the use of a helpful invisibility spell and the presence of a rather dim-witted dragon, Sherlock managed to obtain his golden egg in what was termed a record 46 minutes. Yet the second task did prove a little more strenuous than the first. It was only when he was helped along by the ingenuity of Soo Lin, and the subtle hinting of Henry Knight, that Sherlock had soon figured out the riddle that had been given to them. So, on a colder-than-usual autumn day, Sherlock stood at the pier, surrounded by swarms of cheering Hogwarts, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang student. The gillyweed he had obtained the previous night from Slughorn’s private stores felt heavy in his pocket as the disembodied voice of Ludo Bagman echoed above the sounds of cheering students. The dark waters of the Black Lake rippled.

"Welcome!" the voice of Ludo Bagman called. "Welcome to the second task of the Triwizard Tournament! Last night, something precious was stolen from each of our champions. One might say a treasure! Our champions have been assigned the task of retrieving these same treasures in the space of an hour…"

As Bagman continued to talk, Sherlock surreptitiously took the gillyweed from his pocket and shoved it into his mouth. He gagged slightly at the taste, which was akin to seaweed drenched in a mixture of vinegar and lemon juice. Stood beside him, Soo Lin frowned.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked softly. Sherlock shook his head.

"Not at all."

Soo Lin nodded, decidedly unconvinced. Yet she turned her head away all the same, taking a breath. Swallowing back the rest of the disgusting gillyweed, Sherlock focused on the waters in front of him. It was merpeople they were up against, that was for sure—giant squids certainly didn’t take any interest in treasure, now did they?—so it was most likely that these ‘treasures’ would be hidden away in the merpeople’s village.

Somewhere in the distance, the cannon fired. Quickly, and with his wand in hand, Sherlock shook himself from his thoughts and dived into the water. The shock of the cold vibrated through him, but that was soon overwhelmed by a searing pain at his neck. He did not thrash against it; he knew the effects, and he had prepared himself. Instead, he watched almost in wonder as thin folds of skin grew between his fingers and his toes. Ever so gently, he touched at his neck. The pain was still there, but what accompanied them gave him great cause to smile. Gills, just at the base of his neck, that enabled him to breathe and speak easily. The gillyweed had worked wonders.

Without any more hesitation, Sherlock began to furiously swim through the dark water. Soft, echoing singing filled his eardrums.

_Come seek us where our voices sound…_  
 _We cannot sing above the ground…_  
 _An hour long you’ll have to look…_  
 _To recover what we took._

* * *

He guessed that a little over half an hour had passed by the time he came across the village of the merpeople. The ‘treasures’ turned out to be four people, all of them placed under an enchanted sleep and tied securely by their feet to a stone statue of a merman with menacing eyes. Two of the people Sherlock did not recognize. One was a small man, with similar features to that of Soo Lin. (Her brother, most likely.) The other was a man, much older than any of the other three captives. Process of elimination meant that it was clearly Henry’s father, or at least a father figure of some kind.

The other two however, were Sherlock’s main concern. Positioned beside one another, they were John and Molly. Sherlock wasted no time. He headed straight for Molly and began to untie her. Of  _course_  they’d choose her. It would be entirely ignorant of him to think otherwise. Still, there was no time to waste. He could already feel the effect of the gillyweed wearing off. A jet of white light streaked past him, came into connection with John’s rope and quickly severed it. Sherlock whipped round to see the intruder, but when they revealed themselves to be none other than Mary Morstan, he went back to his work. Astounded, Sherlock watched as Mary—who wore the same after-effects of gillyweed as he did—swam forward, grasped the unconscious John and swum towards the surface.

"Severing Charm!" she called back at him. Sherlock rolled his eyes. How could he forget that? Choosing to blame it on the gillyweed, he lifted his wand.

"Diffindo," he muttered, and the cloth around Molly’s ankle swiftly broke apart. Swimming forward, he caught Molly easily by the waist and made for the surface. As soon as they broke through the icy cold water, Molly’s eyes flew open, and Sherlock glanced to the giant clock at the top of the pier. Twenty minutes under the time. Not bad.

"What’s going on?" Molly spluttered as she stared, almost in panic, at the cheering crowds on the pier.

"It’s okay," Sherlock said quickly as he swam towards the pier, still keeping a tight hold around her waist. "You were captured as part of—"

"As part of your second task," Molly finished as she dragged herself out of the water, her teeth chattering slightly. "I guessed that."

"And I'm sure you know why?" he asked, his hand on her waist as he helped her onto the pier, and Molly smiled as an attendee wrapped a thick towel around her shoulders.

"I think so," she murmured. She tilted her head. "Am I right?"

Smiling a little to himself, Sherlock too climbed out of the water and was, like Molly, immediately wrapped into a warm towel. The voice of Ludo Bagman boomed out the remaining time, but Sherlock's attention was only focused on one person. His smile widened and he stepped forward. "It depends, really. On what you think."

"On what I think?" she asked.

He nodded. Molly grinned and took a step forward. Gripping at his soaked clothes, she reached up on tiptoe and pressed a warm kiss to his lips. Dropping another, lighter, kiss to the side of his mouth, she let him go and stepped back.

"So? Am I right?" she repeated. Sherlock reached towards her face, cupping at her cheek, drawing her closer to him. The crowds, the whole event, had faded into nothing.

"Of course you are," he whispered, and he kissed her all over again.


	51. Preparatory Promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Pregnant Molly goes into labour, and Sherlock reacts in an entirely adorable manner.

They were asleep when it happened. Sherlock was curled tightly up against his pregnant pathologist when the aforementioned pathologist squeezed his arm to wake him.

"What is it?" he asked blearily.

"Well, urm. My waters. They’ve broken."

Sherlock was out of the bed like a shot, and was a blur as he began to make preparations. Molly hadn’t even sat up yet when Sherlock burst into the room, hair brushed, clothes on and overnight bag packed. Molly sighed as he crouched in front of her, eyes wild.

"Are you okay? Can you walk? I’ve contacted the midwife. There isn’t any pain; doesn’t look like it. Is there? Because you know that you should tell me if there’s any pain. The midwife said you should, and I know she’s an idiot like most people, but she is a qualified idiot, so there’s that at least…"

Molly placed an arm on her boyfriend’s shoulder to calm him. “Sherlock, Sherlock, listen. Listen to me.”

"I am."

"Remember what the books said. Waters breaking doesn’t—"

"Doesn’t mean immediate labour."

Molly nodded. “Mm-hm. It could be hours yet. But what I need from you is to help me get dressed and get me to the hospital. Okay?”

"Yes, fine. Wait there." Sherlock cleared his throat and got to his feet and began to gather some clothes together. Molly watched him, rubbing her belly slightly as she shook her head. Where others might have found his panic to be over-the-top or annoying in some way, Molly found it all rather endearing. Sherlock was a drama queen; there was no doubt about that. As such, he could never react normally to such things as the birth of a baby—especially when said baby was his child.

"You know, you really don’t have to panic Sherlock," she said as he helped her dress. "We’ve had nine months to prepare for this."

Sherlock responded by cupping her face in his hands. His gaze was fierce with determination. “Molly, you are bringing our child into the world. It is my responsibility to look after you.”

Molly’s smile widened. “Remember, you still have a lifetime left to look after me.”

"I look forward to it."

Letting out a soft laugh, Molly reached forward and kissed him tenderly. “So do I.” 

Her smile fell as a twinge of pain moved through her abdomen, causing her to wince.

"Sherlock," she said quietly, laying her hands on her stomach.

"Yes?"

"Whilst this promising to look after each other is all very lovely, we really do need to get a move on."


	52. The Valentine's Conundrum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Sherlock panicking over getting Molly a Valentine's Day gift and enlisting Greg and John's help.

_Emergency. Come to Baker Street, it’s urgent. SH_

Pressing a ten pound note into the taxi driver's waiting palm, John jumped out of the vehicle and ran into 221, up the stairs to 221b and he threw open the door.

"So does she prefer white or pink?"

"Pink."

John’s brows furrowed. Sherlock was sat at his desk, with his laptop in front of him. Stood behind him was Lestrade. Both were wearing frowns of concentration.

"Sherlock…" John said slowly. "What’s going on?"

"A puzzle, John—and a complex one at that," Sherlock muttered. His frown deepening, John stepped forward. What was this? A new case? Perhaps an old one that went cold? Tentatively, he glanced at the laptop screen. A incredulous laugh spluttered from his mouth.

"What?" Sherlock said, affronted as John continued to laugh. When he did gain his composure, he pointed to the laptop screen.

"You - and Lestrade - are picking out flowers. _Flowers._ ”

Sherlock nodded. “I realize Lestrade is hardly the ideal adviser in this type of thing considering his continually unstable relationship with his wife—”

"Hey!"

"But you, having been married quite happily for two years now, can provide some more useful insight I’m sure."

Lestrade made a disgruntled noise and settled into the sofa as John stepped behind Sherlock and gazed at the laptop screen. Variations of flower bouquets filled the screen and Sherlock quickly scrolled through them, muttering under his breath.

"Honestly, I don’t know why people go in for this all of this farce; it’s an over-saturated and over-marketed occasion, and it’s all based on a tradition of Roman generals picking names of girls out of a hat, which is hardly the most romantic of notions—now, what do you think of those?"

John rolled his eyes. “Sherlock, why are we doing this? And why is this an emergency?”

"Because custom dictates that a man buys his significant other a gift to celebrate St. Valentine’s Day. I thought this was obvious. Do try and keep up, John."

"You do realize that not many couples actually celebrate Valentine’s Day?"

This question did not come from John. The voice was in fact soft and warm, and alarmingly familiar. As one, John, Lestrade and Sherlock turned their heads to see that Molly Hooper was stood in the doorway to 221b. In one swift motion, Sherlock shut his laptop and rose to his feet, his smile as innocent as a newborn’s. Molly laughed lightly, shaking her head as she moved towards him.

"You really don’t have to get me a gift you know. Not for Valentine’s Day," Molly said sweetly as she looped her arms around her boyfriend’s neck and kissed him tenderly on the lips. "Anyway, I’ve already thought of your gift."

Sherlock grumbled slightly, but as Molly stood on tiptoes and whispered into his ear, the grumbling faded away and was swiftly replaced by a coloring of his cheeks and a sly grin. His gaze remaining on Molly, he spoke.

"John, Lestrade, I’d advise you to leave the flat right now."

As soon as the door to 221b slammed closed, Sherlock’s grin widened and without any warning, he scooped Molly up off her feet and threw her onto his shoulder. Molly burst into laughter as Sherlock strode towards their bedroom.

"Sherlock! Valentine’s isn’t for another week!"

Sherlock chuckled and patted her gently on her inner thigh. “Oh, Miss Hooper, you’re not holding out on me for that long.”

Molly giggled again. If this was what would happen every time she divulged her plans to her boyfriend, she couldn’t wait to tell him what she had planned for his birthday.


	53. The Spider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Sherlock comes into Molly’s flat, but hears a scream from her bathroom. Rushing inside, he finds a spider in her shower and a naked Molly.

Molly sat on her bathroom floor, towel wrapped around her. She nervously brushed a hand through her tangled, damp hair and watched as the man in front of her quietly dressed himself before sitting beside her. To say it was awkward was a gross understatement. Finally, she let out a heavy sigh.

"So."

"So."

"We just had sex."

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”

Molly chewed at the tip of her thumb slightly, absorbing his words. She risked a peek at him, her eyes scanning his rumpled clothing and his ruffled curls. The knowledge that she’d done that made her let out a giggle. He frowned at her in puppy-like confusion.

"What? What’s wrong?"

"Nothing, just - you were only supposed to get rid of the spider."

Sherlock chuckled, nodding again.

"Do you think," Molly asked, "it could’ve been a result of some - adrenaline high or something? From like, the spider, maybe?"

"It’s more likely to do with the heightened levels of dopamine, adrenaline and serotonin that seem to flood our brains whenever we’re in one another’s company." He shrugged. "The removal of the spider from your bathroom was more likely a trigger for us to act on it. Of course, I base that hypothesis purely on my own experiences, so it may just be high adrenaline for you - can’t be sure."

Molly blushed slightly as she continued to stare at him. “Sherlock, are you saying you’re attracted to me?”

"Considering we just had quite vigorous sex on your bathroom floor Molly, one might presume that to be a rather obvious question to—"

He was stopped as Molly grabbed him by the jaw, turned his head and caught his lips in a deep, passionate kiss. As her hands sunk themselves into her curls, his hands traced to her hips and pulled her closer, onto his lap. When they broke apart, he flicked a grin at her.

"Almost a pity I got dressed."

Laughing softly, she shook her head and kissed him lightly on the forehead. “I should get you to get rid of spiders more often.”


	54. Photography Subjects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During the Elementary convention, a photo was released of Benedict Cumberbatch and Louise Brealey goofing about. Tumblr user bencumber asked me to do a Sherlolly fic that was somewhat similar to said picture.

It was rather amazing really. Ever since starting a relationship with the quiet pathologist from St. Bart’s, Sherlock Holmes had become something John Watson thought he would never see: playful. Affectionate, even. True, he had seen his friend joke around before, but never like this. His jokes had always been used as a weapon, but now, he wielded that same humour to draw laughter from someone—not to demoralize them or make him feel better about himself.

Of course, that someone he wished to draw laughter from was—more often than not—his pathologist, Molly Hooper.

* * *

"Hey - hey! Slow down!" John said as his daughter ran past the sofa he and Mary sat on and he smiled as he grabbed at his daughter’s armpits and heaved her onto his lap. Harriet giggled loudly and kissed her father on the nose as she began to excitedly chatter to both him and her mother about the party.

They were gathered at the Holmes’ family home, in order to celebrate Gregory Holmes’ birthday. It was quite a middle class affair really, and John wasn’t ashamed to admit that he felt wildly out of place. So he left it up to Mary—social chameleon that she was—to smile and socialize with the various guests.

As Harriet continued to chatter, John took a quick glance around the room. Molly was talking with Gregory Holmes, giggling at a joke he had just made whilst Violet Holmes was slipping through and around the guests, camera in hand as she happily took pictures. (She even quite miraculously managed to take one of Mycroft, who merely arched an eyebrow in lieu of smiling.)

She had just approached her husband and Molly and politely asked for a photograph of the two of them when a dark-haired figure barreled into the living room and towards Molly, scooping her up in a hug and kissing her on the cheek, which left his father to stand there awkwardly as the camera went off. Violet Holmes sighed softly, but her affectionate smile showed there was no ill will. She turned, and on seeing John, she smiled.

"John, Mary! One for the album?" she asked, holding up her camera as she moved over to them.

Seeing that Molly and Sherlock were now lost in their own world and being utterly affectionate with one another, John nodded and shifted closer to Mary, smiling for the camera. There were a lot of things he had seen over the past few years, but seeing Sherlock Holmes being spontaneously affectionate was one sight that he would always regard with some confusion.

* * *

Molly Hooper had not expected to be swept into a bone-crushing hug and kissed on the cheek when Violet Holmes had asked for a photograph. She had also not expected for her boyfriend to keep a hold on her long after his parents had stepped away and nuzzle gently at her cheek with his nose.

The one thing however, that she truly did not expect were the words that tumbled from Sherlock’s mouth in a low whisper.

"We should get married."

She spluttered a surprised laugh and swallowed back a sizable amount of wine, turning her head slightly to look at him.

"What? Where did this come from?"

He shrugged and pressed a kiss to her neck. “Just thought of it now.”

Molly smiled and shook her head and turned fully to face him. His grin was both a mixture of pride and excitement.

"Sherlock, are you saying you’re proposing to me because you just… felt like it?"

"Also it’s a natural progression of our relationship," Sherlock said with a grin as he reached into his pocket and brought out a ring. "Considering we have been dating for over two years now."

Molly raised an eyebrow at him.

"How long have you been carrying that around?"

"About a week or so."

Molly slowly shook her head and stood on tiptoe to kiss him tenderly. When she broke away from him, she found that he had deftly slipped the ring onto her finger. Molly’s smile widened.

"Do you think we should we announce it?"

Sherlock shrugged again, stepping away from her to put his hand on the small of her back.

“We could,” he said as they began to move through the crowd of the guests. “Or we could see how long it takes them to notice.”

"Okay. That sounds good."

Ten minutes later, Molly was stood in the middle of the living room, surrounded by a crowd who all clamored to see the ring. Sherlock stood by the fireplace, wine glass in hand and watched. Molly was positively glowing as she smiled, and when her gaze settled momentarily on him, he felt his heart swell a little in pride. She, Molly Hooper, had agreed to be his wife.

It seemed spontaneous affection did have its advantages after all.


	55. A Lot More Complicated Than It Looks. (Teenlock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: established teen!lock where Sherlock tells Molly that he loves her for the first time.

"Molly. I - I hope you realise this might be difficult to hear, but I need - no, no, _want -_ to say it. We’ve been friends for a long time and, well, it was great - no, wonderful - when you said you’d be my girlfriend. So I guess what I’m saying is… is that I love you.”

Sherlock looked up from the crinkled piece of paper in his hands to be met by the are-you-serious look that had been long patented by his best friend, John Watson.

"Crap. Utter crap."

Sherlock sighed and threw himself dramatically onto his bed.

"What? It’s short, and to the point."

John shook his head. “It really wasn’t.”

Sherlock groaned and covered his face with his hands, letting the piece of paper flutter to the floor.

“Why is this so _hard?_ " he huffed. "I’ve been going out with her for a year now! Surely it should just - come out!"

John shrugged and spun round on his desk chair to look back at his computer. "This is normal, Sherlock. Happens to everyone.”

"But I'm _not_ everyone! I know I love her!" Sherlock petulantly rolled onto his side, huffing again for good measure. John just shook his head and spun back around to pick up the piece of paper.

"I’m sure you’ll find a way to tell her - wait a second." He brought the paper closer to his face, trying to read Sherlock’s minute writing. "Did you write a poem?"

The piece of paper was snatched from his hands before he could even begin to snigger. The tips of Sherlock’s ears were pink.

"Shut up," he mumbled. A knock on the door interrupted any further conversation, and as both Sherlock and John looked up, Mary peeked out from behind the door and grinned at them both.

"What are you two arguing about now then?"

"Nothing, actually. It’s just Sherlock panicking because he doesn’t know how to tell Molly he loves her."

“ _John!_ ”

"Really?" Mary asked as she stepped inside. "Still?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, teeth gritted as he tapped nervously at his knees. Mary settled onto the bed beside him, crossing her legs and tilting her head a little.

"It isn’t difficult y’know. John managed it."

"No he didn’t. He just told you that you were his girlfriend and you accepted it."

John glared at his friend, whilst Mary laughed. “You know that’s not true. John and I were already dating by that point anyway. Now c’mon, talk to me. What’s so bad about telling Molly you love her?”

"Nothing, technically," Sherlock said with a sigh, ruffling at his curls.

Mary smiled one of her I’ve-got-it smiles. “A-ha. Sherlock…”

"What?"

"You’re suffering from a large case of nerves."

* * *

Downstairs, in the kitchen, Molly stood beside Violet Holmes and merrily chopped at a pile of potatoes, blissfully unaware of the torment her boyfriend was going through at that particular moment.

Violet grinned as she prepared a large chicken for roasting. “So, how’s school?”

"It’s great. Sherlock’s doing well - I’m making sure of that!"

"That’s wonderful," Violet said cheerfully. "You’re such a good influence on him Molly dear."

It was no secret that Mrs Holmes adored Molly, and had done so since their first meeting. She had seen from the very start how well matched she and her son would be, and every time Molly made a visit to the Holmes family cottage, she would subtly push them together in the hopes they would finally see the light. Much to her delight, they had and it was reported that she hadn’t stopped smiling since.

"Has he, by any chance…"

Molly shook her head. “No, he hasn’t said it yet. I know he does, please don’t get me wrong, but…”

"I know dear. It’s nice to hear it, isn’t it?"

Molly nodded once and continued to chop at the potatoes. The slamming open of a door caused both her and Violet to turn around. Sherlock stood in the doorway, his hand twitching a little as he worried at his bottom lip.

Noticing the delicacy of the situation, Violet politely excused herself and swiftly disappeared, throwing a quick wink to Molly as she passed. Smiling, Molly turned away.

"You okay? Your mum said supper should be ready at about 8 o’clock."

“ _Iloveyou._ ”

Molly whipped around, blinking in surprise. Sherlock looked in every direction and at everything but her. A crimson red flush grew over his cheeks.

"What was that?"

The first time he spoke it was so quiet, only fleas could have heard it. Molly stepped forward. Sherlock still avoided her eyes.

"Sherlock," she said softly as she touched at his shoulder. "I can’t hear you."

He huffed and finally looked at her. “I love you.”

Molly wasted no time. Grabbing at the collar of his shirt, she caught him in a kiss, feeling him freeze momentarily but immediately and instinctively melt into her, wrapping his gangly arms around her waist, fervent in his kiss as she was.

They only broke apart when they heard a loud, indignant cough behind them. Sherlock groaned on seeing the new arrival. Mycroft however, just looked over the two of them with his trademark superior air.

"I don’t suppose you’ve seen my books about anywhere?"

Molly nodded towards the pile of potatoes, her arms still locked around Sherlock’s shoulders. “Under there.”

Mycroft groaned and immediately made for the kitchen counter, muttering under his breath. “Every bloody year, I’ll have to talk to her - my books are not a chopping board, for Christ’s sake - MOTHER!”

When he did leave, books wedged under his arm and still vehemently shouting for his mother, Molly burst into giggles. Sherlock joined in soon after.

"Oh!" Molly said after a moment. "I almost forgot."

"Forgot what?"

Molly grinned and kissed him lightly on his nose. “I love you too.”


	56. Amateur Matchmakers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: John and Mary try to push Sherlock and Molly together, only to find out that they've been together the whole time.

With a sigh, John settled into the chair opposite Lestrade’s desk. “Greg, I need to call you in on a favour.”

The detective inspector languidly chewed on his afternoon doughnut and shrugged.

"Sure. What is it?"

“I need you to ask out Molly.”

* * *

"Hey, Molly." She grinned up at Lestrade, sunny as ever—despite the fact that she had a scalpel in one hand and a body of a drowned female laid out in front of her.

"Greg, hi! What can I do for you?"

Lestrade shrugged. “I was just wondering if you’d like to go out for drinks sometime.”

Molly raised her eyebrows briefly in question, but immediately shrugged and shook her head. “Sorry, I’ve got plans. Thanks for asking though.”

She went back to her autopsy, deftly failing to notice the way Lestrade turned in the direction of the morgue door and gave a shrug. From behind the door, John gave a sigh. Clearly, this was going to be more difficult than he thought.

* * *

John smiled as he watched his daughter toddle happily across the living room floor, singing Christmas carols happily to herself. His gaze flicked towards his wife, who was busy affixing bunches of mistletoe to the top of the doorway.

"Are you sure this will – you know – work?"

Mary groaned as she reached up towards a particularly high corner. “Of course it will – we just have to make sure the rest of the plan goes right.”

It did, obviously – the wine was split on Molly’s dress accordingly and Sherlock, on seeing the mishap that had befallen Molly, had swooped to his feet, picked up a napkin and deftly mopped up the surplus wine that dripped from Molly’s dress. The only problem was that neither of them were underneath the doorway. Mary gave an exasperated look to her husband.

Their mutual expressions said everything. Almost – _almost._

* * *

"Right," Mary said breathlessly as she jogged up the steps to 221b, with Harriet in her arms. "If this doesn’t get them together, I don’t know what will."

John gave a short nod and retrieved his old set of keys from his back pocket. After a quick jiggle of the lock, the door to 221b swung open and John frowned – it wasn’t usually this quiet. Mary sighed and lowered Harriet to the floor, glancing at her watch.

"Told Molly to be here at 2," she muttered. John shrugged and went to speak – only to be cut off by the sounds of a giggle and the distinct pitter-patter of his daughter’s feet. Sure enough, Harriet soon appeared, eyes bright.

"Daddy!" she whispered, waving impatiently. "Mummy! Come see!"

Before either Mary or John could ask what was going on, Harriet was running back down the hallway. Her parents dutifully followed on, and stopped when Harriet reached up and pulled on the handle of Sherlock’s bedroom door. She pushed it forward carefully and peered inside.

"What’s going on?" John whispered, but he was only rewarded by a _shush_ from Harriet. With a roll of his eyes, he stepped forward and peeked through the crack of the bedroom door.

Flooded by shadow, two figures – thankfully clothed – were locked in a tight, passionate embrace, soft moans flooding irregularly from their mouths.

John immediately shut the door and heaved his daughter into his arms, blinking furiously. Mary bit at her lip to swallow back a giggle.

"Daddy, where are we going?" Harriet asked, eyes innocent. John shook his head — the moans still rang in his ears.

"Home," he said stiffly, his cheeks a charming shade of pink as he moved out of 221b. Mary merely shrugged.

"Least we know why we weren’t getting anywhere," she murmured as a smile crept onto her lips. The only serious problem was that she and John now had an inquisitive two year old to deal with.

* * *

Sherlock looked over the edges of his book at his friend and narrowed his eyes.

"You’ve blinked twenty times in the last minute."

"Right. Yes," John said with a nod. He stood and headed into the kitchen. Letting out a soft sigh, Sherlock closed his book and put it to one side.

"Blinking rapidly either indicates you’re nervous, or tense. Perhaps trying to erase a memory?—"

John groaned. “Do we really have to talk about this?”

A smile twitched at the sides of Sherlock’s mouth as he touched his fingers to his mouth. “Considering I don’t know what ‘this’ is, I’d say yes.”

"It’s – Mary and I – oh forget it. I’ll see you later." Grumbling under his breath, John grabbed his coat from his old chair and hurried from the flat. Sherlock’s smile widened and he slowly shook his head, picking up his book once more.

The bedroom door however, slowly creaked open and Molly (who looked distractingly radiant in his purple shirt and her favourite pair of knickers) stepped out, hair tangled from the previous night’s activities. Sherlock offered a hand to her as she moved towards him and she took it, allowing him to gently pull her onto his lap. She glanced back at the front door to 221b and giggled, biting on her shirt sleeve to muffle the sound.

"We should tell them," she said after a moment. Sherlock shrugged and smiled as his hand trailed down to rest at her hip. Tenderly, he leaned forward and nuzzled at her cheek with his nose before he dropped a kiss onto the bottom of her jaw.

"I don’t know," he said slowly as he kissed at the bottom of her jaw. "It’s all quite entertaining. The scheme with the mistletoe was rather clever."

"Sherlock…" Molly said with a sigh, tracing the lines of his neck and collarbone with her fingertips. "They need to know."

He sighed mock-heavily and looked to her. “Fine. Of course, once we tell John and Mary, we’ll have to tell everyone else.”

"I’m okay with that," Molly said, shrugging a little. "Are you?"

Sherlock nodded. “If it’ll stop any detective inspectors sniffing around my pathologist…”

Molly laughed and playfully swatted at her boyfriend’s arm, curling closer against him. “That was John’s doing, and you know it.”

Sherlock grinned and touched at her chin. “Point still stands,” he said wryly, bringing her close for a long, tender kiss before he pressed his forehead to hers. Molly smiled and cupped at his cheek.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

* * *

"Are you seriously telling me that while Mary and I were busy trying to get you two together, you were merrily shagging Molly silly at 221b?"

"Well – not _just_ at 221b…”

"Please, don’t. My brain’s already scarred."

"Suit yourself. It is rather amazing though; how creative one can get with the sexual process—"

"Oh, for God’s—"

"Food is especially—"

"Sherlock! Seriously. _Shut up._ ”


	57. Sherlock's Love Bite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: The people at New Scotland Yard discover a hickey on Sherlock's neck and duly try to figure out how he got it.

Dimmock choked back on his coffee, eyes widening as he listened to Greg’s story.

"Seriously? You sure you weren’t imagining things?"

"No," Greg said with a shake of the head. "It was there."

"Blimey. Who’d you think gave it to him then?"

Greg shrugged and took a gulp of his own coffee, the taste burning slightly against his tongue.

"I didn’t think about that — too surprised really. I mean, it’s _Sherlock._ Why would he — you know. Have one?” He gestured to his neck uselessly.

"Dunno. Case, maybe?"

* * *

Sherlock’s head bent over the body as he peered closely at the corpse’s forehead. He shook his head and his gaze flicked momentarily towards Greg.

"You’re doing it again."

"Oh, c’mon! How did you get it? The boys reckon it was for a case."

Sherlock remained silent. Greg sighed.

"Got any ideas on how the victim died?"

"Four. It wasn’t for a case."

"Sorry?"

Sherlock stretched up, looking at Greg as he stepped away from the body.

"This," he said, gesturing towards his love bite. A tiny, knowing smile edged at his his mouths. "It wasn’t for a case."

With that, he left the morgue. Not a moment later, Molly stepped inside.

"Molly?" Greg asked hesitantly.

"Hmm?" she said, looking up from her clipboard.

"Do you know about Sherlock’s—thing?"

"What, the— _thing_? Yeah.”

"Who did it, do you think?"

Molly smiled as she looked back to her clipboard. “No idea.”

* * *

"Tenner it’s that girl from downstairs—you know, the one in the records office."

"Bollocks," Lestrade said. "He never bloody well goes down to the records office."

"Maybe it’s one of the forensics team," Philip suggested, which was met with scattered murmurings of agreement.

Sally tapped irritably at her knee and bit at the inside of her cheek. Unfortunately, with this being a work outing, she couldn’t simply slip away and hoped she wouldn’t be missed. Instead, she had to sit there and end up hearing every word of their conversation.

In an attempt to pull herself away from the stupidity, she got up and went over to the bar to order a drink. Behind her, the conversation continued.

"Doesn’t have to be a woman," a fresh-faced detective said, earning raised eyebrows from the other two. The detective shrugged. "Could be John Watson."

Lestrade frowned at him. “He’s _married._ ”

"Oh. Yeah."

Sally rolled her eyes as she settled into the one of the bar stools. Flirting with a hot barman was definitely a better way to spend an evening than listening to any stupid bets.

* * *

Anyone who might’ve seen the offices of the London Metropolitan Police over the next week might have compared it to being inside a betting shop. A large whiteboard had been wheeled in by Lestrade and a numerous number of names had been drawn up whilst a glass jar stood beside it, filled to the brim with cash. Sometimes someone would be working diligently before they would suddenly bolt up onto their feet, rush to the board, stuff a note into the jar and scribble down a name.

One brave soul had even scribbled down Sally’s name, but that had been swiftly wiped off. (She was pleased to find that no-one else put her name up after that.)

It was a Wednesday when it happened. The doors had swung open and Sherlock had swooped inside. Both Dimmock and Greg made a leap for the whiteboard, trying to vain to use as much as they could of their bodies to cover the incriminating evidence. Letting out a soft sigh, Sally leaned back in her chair and sipped at her coffee. No doubt this was going to lighten up a very dull afternoon.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said, coming to a stop. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing! Just the lads and I—very important case, couldn’t—"

"If it was important, you would’ve spoken to me by now."

Greg glanced to Sally for help, but she only shook her head, suppressing a giggle. Smiling weakly, he turned back to Sherlock, who had tilted his head and arched an eyebrow.

"Uh… I knew you were too busy?" he said finally. Sherlock didn’t have to say anything; it took both Dimmock and Greg less than a minute of silence to sheepishly step away from the whiteboard.

"Hm," Sherlock said, stepping forward and reading the various scribbles on the board. After a long, long moment, he stretched out a hand. "Pen."

"What?"

"The pen. Where is it?"

Greg decided not to question Sherlock’s choice of action. Instead, he took the whiteboard pen from his desk and chucked it in Sherlock’s direction, who caught it effortlessly. Crouching down, he began to scribble in the last available space, speaking as he did so.

"Although this is an admirable list Lestrade, there’s one name you’ve forgotten."

Finishing with a flourish, Sherlock turned, threw the pen back onto Greg’s desk and walked out of the office without another word.

It was Sally who got up. On seeing the name, she grinned.

"Molly Hooper?" Greg asked, incredulous. "There goes my twenty quid.”

Sally’s grin widened as she settled back into her chair. (It would only be two weeks later that she’d admit to Greg that she had known who it was all along.)

* * *

"So they guessed Scarlett Johansson, but they didn’t guess me?" Molly mock-pouted as Sherlock wound his arm around her hip. "I’m offended."

"Don’t be," Sherlock murmured, dropping a kiss onto her cheek and nuzzling at her skin. "I have no idea who Scarlett Johansson even is."

Molly rolled her eyes and kissed him tenderly, smiling a little. “Like you’d have a chance with her if you did. How did Greg see it anyway? Surely you could’ve hidden it underneath your scarf?”

There was no response from her boyfriend. Instead, he avoided her eyes and leaned in for another kiss. He was stilled by the feeling of Molly pressing her hand against his chest. She raised her eyebrows.

"Sherlock. Did you deliberately show your love bites off to Lestrade?"

"Why would I do a thing like that?"

"Sherlock…"

"Maybe."


	58. The Untimely Death of Molly Hooper. (Swaplock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Molly dies. Sherlock is the only one left to plan her funeral.

He went through the motions. Invitations were sent out, consolations were accepted with grace and flowers were ordered. The world was in the first blooms of spring when the funeral was held.

The congregation gathered solemnly around the grave, watching as the coffin was lowered into the ground. They began to disperse when two attendants began the ritual of actually burying the woman.

Sherlock however, still remained where he stood, blankly watching the steady movements of the two attendants. This wasn’t real. It felt too real to be so.

A touch of his shoulder caused him to look to his side. John stood there, a mixture of sympathy and grief in his eyes. He didn’t say anything, but just squeezed his shoulder instead and moved away to comfort a crying Mrs Hudson.

Finally, Sherlock departed. He didn’t look back.

* * *

When he got home, he knew immediately something was wrong. Beside his lab coat, there hung a small Belstaff coat, as well as that scarf; the one he had given her on the night of that excruciating Christmas party. Narrowing his eyes, he removed his suit jacket, tossed it onto the sofa and moved through the flat. He found himself gravitating towards his bedroom. Slowly, he opened the door.

What he found caused him to smile for the first time that day. Underneath his duvet, there was a lump. A lump that was extremely familiar to him. Carefully, he made to step towards it. The lump stirred. He saw a flash of honey-brown hair.

"I can hear you breathing," the lump mumbled. He grinned at the side of his mouth and without any warning, he jumped onto the bed and onto her, clutching her by her waist. A muffled, laughing shriek escaped her lips as he peppered her with kisses.

"Sherlock!" she called, swatting halfheartedly at him. "I’m _supposed_ to be sleeping!”

"Pity you chose my bed as your sleeping place then," he said with a shrug, though he did settle onto his side and contented himself with hugging at her waist with one arm. The other he used to stroke her hair. She quietened underneath his ministrations, clearly lost in thought.

"The funeral went okay?" she asked quietly.

"Of course it did. All the plans went perfectly." He swallowed before asking his next question. "How long do you think you’ll be gone?"

"Two years, give or take." She twisted her head to look at him. "Can you wait that long?"

He smiled again and dropped a tender, swift kiss on her lips. Nuzzling gently at her cheek and holding her tighter, he spoke.

"Molly Hooper, I’ve waited for you for far longer than that."

She grinned and all of a sudden, he found himself being flipped onto his back as she straddled him. His grin widened as his hands made their way to her hips.

"How long before your flight leaves?"

She gave a shrug. “Couple of hours. Mycroft will text me when—”

A timely, insistent chime interrupted her. Sherlock gave out a groan as she rolled off him and retrieved her phone. Of course his brother would text her now. _Of course._ Selfish bastard.

Molly scoffed and tossed her phone back onto the side table, looking back to Sherlock.

"Scratch that. Apparently I’ve only got an hour." She rolled her eyes. "Being dead is such a chore."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Are you actually complaining about being dead?”

She rolled towards him, settling herself on top of his chest. “When it leads to your brother only giving me an hour to say goodbye, yes.”

His grin turned wolfish as his fingers traced circles into her back. She let out another laugh as he rolled them until he was on top of her and he leaned forward to whisper in her ear, his low baritone low and utterly filthy. “Miss Hooper…”

Molly squirmed underneath him, letting out an excitable squeak. He chuckled and kissed at her neck and collarbone.

"You can do a lot in an hour."


	59. Check-Out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Lestrade and/or John catch Sherlock checking out Molly.

"The thief sent another message, coded. A team’s trying to decipher it now - Sherlock."

Nothing. Lestrade tried again, a little louder the second time. Still nothing. Finally, he cleared his throat. This time, his efforts were rewarded with a small I’m-going-to-pretend-to-listen grunt. Lestrade rolled his eyes as Molly stood up straight, gathering her files in her arms. She blushed furiously.

"I’m so sorry for that, I’m so clumsy sometimes—"

"It’s fine," Greg said with a smile. Molly heaved a sigh of relief and glanced to Sherlock, who immediately began to look very interested in the sample under his microscope.

"I was about to get some coffee. Want one?" she asked brightly. He nodded.

"Black—"

"Two sugars. I remember! See you later Greg!" she called over her shoulder as she turned to leave. Greg looked back to Sherlock to find that the consulting detective’s gaze had gone back to zeroing in on Molly. Specifically, her arse.

He didn’t stop looking until the lab door swung closed behind her.

* * *

"It’s amazing he gets any work done," Greg said with a sigh, taking a quick sweeping gaze around John’s living room. Mary, sat on the sofa with her baby daughter in her lap, raised an eyebrow.

"He’s hardly subtle about it either," Molly’s voice floated in from the kitchen, and was swiftly followed by the woman in question, a tray of party food in her hands. "Where do you want these? Table?"

Mary nodded quickly before looking to her husband. “Have you talked to him yet?”

"I’ve tried talking to him, but you know what he’s like," John said as he reached forward to pick up one of the snacks Molly was laying out. A swift rap to his wrist by his wife soon put a stop to that idea, however. John grinned and took one anyway, popping into his mouth. Molly grinned and settled into the sofa.

"It is weird though - I’ve been in love with the man for years. It’s strange for him to be suddenly checking me out every five seconds."

Greg laughed. “It’s not sudden, trust me.”

Molly narrowed her eyes at him, to which Greg raised his eyebrows.

"Don’t you remember when I first introduced you? He didn’t stop staring at you for a whole minute. Didn’t even know he was doing it!" Greg laughed again as Molly briefly blushed pink.

"Anyway," Mary said as she heaved her daughter onto her shoulder and got to her feet. "I’ve got to put this little one to bed. Sherlock _did_ say he was coming, didn’t he John?”

"When I mentioned Molly would be here, he almost jumped at the chance."

* * *

He was only going to this one because John had made him. The fact that Molly Hooper would also be in attendance was just an… added benefit. That was all. Despite John’s knowing gurn of a grin, that was indeed all it was. An added benefit. He most certainly had not thought over and over again about what he was going to say to her, and nor had he visualized what she might be wearing during the party. (He definitely had not come up with ten ways to undo a dress zip, and he had _not_ organized said ways into order of efficiency.)

On entering the Watsons’ home, he was annoyed to find that it was already in full swing. People populated the hallway, and from what he could hear and see as he brushed past numerous other guests and ignored their attempts at greetings and small talk, the living room was equally as crowded. His annoyance deepened. He’d estimated it would take at least five minutes to locate Molly, but among the chattering mess of guests, it would undoubtedly take him much longer than that.

A clap on his shoulder made him turn. Lestrade stood there, grinning with a glass of wine in his hand.

"If you’re looking for Molly, she’s in the kitchen."

"Oh. Thank you George," he said, quickly turning on his heel as he heard the customary "it’s Greg!" echo down the hall behind him.

When he slipped inside the kitchen, he found Molly sat at the table and he almost beat a hasty retreat. She was wearing _that_ dress. The one that hugged her figure much too tightly not to be a distraction with the silvery edge that highlighted her breasts which were—contrary to what he had told her—the very right shape and size. He could probably cover them with just his palms, eliciting that very special moan from her mouth… He shook his head quickly and turned to leave.

"Sherlock!" He jerked to a stop and silently cursed the name of Mary Watson. On turning around however, he smiled genially. Mary grinned and took a sip of her coffee.

"You’re late," she said cheerfully. "Almost thought you weren’t coming."

Sherlock said nothing but only nodded once and settled into the chair directly opposite Molly. He immediately regretted the decision.

Tendrils of her hair, the rest of it wound around her shoulder, settled against the smooth valley of her breasts. Images of that hair, damper and more tangled, brushing against him as he moved inside her, quickly and greedily taking more and more of her moans, filled his mind and struggled to be swept away.

He could feel his cheeks grow hot. He didn’t know what annoyed him more—the fact that the images had appeared so quickly and in such an unbidden manner or that she damn well hadn’t said anything yet!

The whole situation was ridiculous. He shot up to his feet.

"Sherlock!" Mary cried out. "Watch out!" Sherlock blinked, looking to see that in his attempt to get away, he had jolted the table and Mary Watson was now drenched, head to toe, in vaguely warm coffee. He stood there dumbly as Molly began to fuss over her friend, wiping away what she could of the coffee. The party however had left Mary in good spirits and with a laugh, she departed from the kitchen to change. Once she had gone, Molly turned to Sherlock, her hands firmly on her hips. (She would’ve looked better with his hands on her hips, he decided.)

"What was that about?" she asked firmly. He swallowed, throat dry.

"I… I don’t know."

"You just jumped up! You might’ve given Mary a warning or something; now she’s soaked."

An angry, reddened flush grew over her cheeks as she spoke, moving quickly down to her chest. He felt himself grow hot again. Mumbling what he thought—hoped—to be at least a plausible excuse, he ran from the kitchen and out of the back door.

* * *

Sherlock only returned to the party ten minutes later, during which Molly would surely have forgotten the incident and returned to mingling.

He had no such luck. On stepping quietly back into the kitchen, he found Molly still sat at the kitchen table and still drinking from her wine. It would be fine, he reassured himself. He could just walk past her and—

"Are you going to ignore me for the whole evening?"

He whirled around. “N-no.”

She set down her wine glass and leaned back in her chair. “Okay then. You look nice. Enjoying the party?”

"What are you doing?"

"Chatting. Talking. Not ignoring you."

"Oh. Well, that’s… good. You look well."

"Thank you."

"Though I disapprove of your dress choice."

"Oh?" Molly said, voice tightening. His speech quickened. Everything and anything tripped from his mouth—anything to get her to stop looking at him like that.

"I would’ve thought, considering what happened between us last time you wore that dress, you might have thrown it away. Or burnt it. Or perhaps not. Perhaps the dress holds sentimental value for you—but then, why would it?" His cheeks weren’t just hot, but burning. He continued to babble on. Molly’s expression moved from hesitant anger to pure confusion. "It’s just a piece of clothing, it shouldn’t be sentimental, but then people are sentimental about a lot of things, animals included—"

"Sherlock, you can kiss me you know."

Anyone else might have been taken aback by such a blunt sentence, but for the consulting detective, it was a wave of relief. With a wide smile, he stepped forward and bent down, catching the woman who had plagued his thoughts so consistently by her soft and not at all too small mouth.

* * *

Mary hurried down the hallway, pulling at the hem of her dress and peeking into her daughter’s bedroom to check on her sleeping form before she headed down the stairs.

"Sherlock!" she heard her husband call. "Sure you won’t—" She increased her speed, stopping at the bottom of the stairs to see John stood at the living room door, staring after Sherlock, who weaved through the guests, a giggling Molly following after him.

"No!" Sherlock called over his shoulder. "Currently very busy!"

The door slammed behind him. Mary shook her head and on catching her husband’s eye, she shrugged. Sure, she now had one ruined dress, but at least Sherlock had finally pulled his head out of his arse.

* * *

Stood outside the lab at St. Bart’s, Greg checked his watch for a third time and rolled his eyes. A harried-looking John rushed down the corridor towards him.

"Got your text. Sorry I’m late. What is it?"

"You know how we all thought it would be great if Sherlock finally asked Molly out?"

John nodded, but Greg didn’t say anything. Instead, he sighed and grabbed at the handle, pulling the door open. Gingerly, John peeked round. His eyes widened.

Sherlock was sat on one of the stools, his microscope set up in front of him. He was paying little to no attention to that however. What he seemed to be most interested in was the pathologist on his lap, the two of them sharing giggles and heated kisses. John blinked quickly and stepped away, frozen as he watched Greg close the door, a grumpy frown on his face.

"Yeah. He’ll never get any bloody work done now."

"There’s only one thing for it then: canteen?"

Greg shrugged. “Might as well.”


	60. The Adventure of the Jealous Husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Another detective starts going to Molly as their go-to pathologist. Sherlock becomes jealous.

"Molly!" Sherlock barked as he swooped inside the morgue. "I need that body, believe the name’s Tara Jen—" He stuttered to a halt at the sight that befell him. To anyone else, it would have seemed perfectly innocent. Just Molly helping out another detective. To Sherlock Holmes however, it was akin to a subtle declaration of war. He cleared his throat and stepped forward, tapping Molly on the shoulder. She smiled briefly at him.

"Just a minute, Sherlock. Wait outside, won’t you?"

Sherlock frowned and looked to the man opposite him. He was tall, muscular in build with short cropped hair. Former military then.

"Who are you?" he asked shortly, tucking his hands behind his back.

"Oh!" the man said brightly. He moved around the table towards Sherlock, sticking out his hand. "Name’s Barker. You’re Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you? Big fan, big fan."

For a long moment, Sherlock stared at the man who had so brusquely and clumsily invaded his morgue. He didn’t take his hand. Barker chuckled nervously and let it drop back to his side.

"I was just getting some help from Molly, with my latest case. Very efficient—much more than some of the others around here!" he said with another banal chuckle.

Sherlock departed without another word.

* * *

"I know you’re jealous." Her remark caused him to blink slightly. He turned his head to look at her, eyes wide with innocence. She raised an eyebrow as she continued with her autopsy.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," he said finally, sniffing a little.

"Yes you do, and you really shouldn’t be."

Any more conversation that might have transpired was cut short by the arrival of Barker, followed on by Lestrade. The two of them were deep in conversation. Lestrade grinned at Sherlock on seeing him.

"Barker was just telling me about his latest case. The—what was it again?"

"The Amberley case."

"Yes," Sherlock said, squaring his shoulders. "I’ve heard of that."

"I was actually hoping you might be able to help out with it, Mr Holmes."

A giggle escaped Molly’s mouth in a snort. Sherlock whipped his glare around to her, but she just shrugged and mimed for him to carry on. Noting the atmosphere between the two, Barker cleared his throat a little.

"I mean, if it’s not too much inconvenience."

"No, I’m afraid—"

"He’ll do it," Molly said quickly, grinning at Barker and Lestrade. "He’s been itching for a case."

On receiving this news, Barker and Lestrade departed the morgue and animatedly continued their conversation. Sherlock glared at Molly, but she didn’t look at him. Instead, she merrily continued with her work and began to hum slightly. In a small gesture of defiance, Sherlock flipped up his collar and stormed from the morgue, coat tails flapping behind him. Molly chose not to notice.

* * *

"Are you sure this is entirely legal?" Barker whispered, pulling his coat tighter around himself, his eyes constantly moving around the sleeping neighborhood. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he continued to pick at the lock.

"Try and think of a more obvious question, won’t you?"

A few more moments of silence passed before the door swung gently open. Pausing only to smirk at his fellow detective, Sherlock stepped through and began to conduct his search. From behind him, he heard Barker close the door and slowly move into the living room.

"You’re sure Amberley’s going to be gone for the evening?"

"I calculated it, so yes," Sherlock turned to face his accomplice, "I should say he’ll be gone for a while."

After that, he and Barker conducted their search in relative silence. The only things that broke it were the occasional mutterings of Sherlock or the scratching of pen against paper as Barker scribbled down a series of notes. (On seeing this, Sherlock had decided that if Barker wasn’t so intent on being a failing detective, he could’ve been an astonishingly efficient assistant.)

"Miss Hooper’s very pretty isn’t she?" Barker asked after a while as the two of them investigated the dining room. Sherlock straightened up. After weighing up the pros and cons of punching him (it would be emotionally satisfying, but would in the end hinder the investigation), Sherlock merely turned and cocked an eyebrow.

"Really? I haven’t noticed." He turned back to his examination of some particular nicks in the wood of the dining table.

"That’s not a very nice thing to say about your wife."

Sherlock’s jaw tightened. He turned back to Barker, who was grinning like a fool.

"You didn’t figure it out. She told you."

"Tried to ask her out for drinks first time I met her; she told me she was married. Didn’t say who to though. I guessed it was you as soon as I saw you two together."

Sherlock sniffed contemptuously. Barker was clearly more intelligent than he looked.

"I’ve seen enough," he said after a pause. With that, he left with a smug-looking Barker following on behind him.

His smirk wasn’t wiped off until the next morning when Sherlock matter-of-factually asked his client where he’d hidden the bodies.

* * *

"It was amazing!" Barker said breathlessly, retelling the story to an impressed-but-trying-not-to-show-it Lestrade. "I thought he was mad, asking such a question, but when Amberley attacked him, well, that was that!"

Sherlock couldn’t help but smirk as he discreetly moved past the two and into the morgue where Molly was busy conducting another autopsy. She grinned as he stopped behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.

"You seem to have made an impact on Barker. He’s busy telling the story to everyone he meets."

Sherlock tucked his chin against her neck. “He and Anderson would get on well.”

"I suppose they would," Molly said as she began to slice open the cadaver in front of her. "He promised not to say anything about us, though."

"How chivalrous of him," he muttered. "Or at least it would be if everyone we know didn’t already know about our nuptials."

"True. It was a nice gesture of him, though, you have to admit that."

"I don’t have to admit anything. But I can wish you’d wear your ring when you worked."

Molly sighed. “I can’t.”

"You did when you were engaged to Tom," Sherlock said, not bothering to hide the childish envy in his voice.

"Yes, but I wasn’t in love with Tom, was I? Anyway, I _do_ wear it,” she said, to which Sherlock smiled, his fingers automatically tracing up her body towards her neck, where he fiddled with the silver chain hidden underneath her blouse. He supposed he was lucky that she had chosen to don her ring in such a manner. According to her, not many of the married pathologists at Bart’s gave their spouses such an honour. Still smiling, he kissed at her neck, making sure to press his lips against the chain. Molly laughed softly and turned to look at him as he stepped away.

"I love you. See you later?"

He gave her a swift kiss on her mouth. “Of course. Perhaps I’ll go and badger John.”

"You’re a total horror, Sherlock Holmes," Molly said, smiling affectionately.

"And yet you married me, Mrs. Hooper-Holmes."

"Yes I did. Now get lost. I’ve got a diseased lung to dissect."

Sherlock’s eyes lit up, hopeful.

"No, Sherlock."

"Please?" her husband pleaded, eyes wide and his pout ramped up to 11. Molly laughed. Such a child. She shrugged.

"Maybe next time."

On that, he immediately began to grin again, dropping a kiss on her cheek before he departed. Molly turned back to her work, and not for the first time, felt extremely happy to be known as Molly Hooper-Holmes.


	61. Eternal Trust and Bond. (Vamplock Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this post from holnnes: http://holnnes.tumblr.com/post/78114677115/i-need-a-fic-where-sherlock-and-molly-are-vampires

She heard his voice before she saw his face.

“Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan,” another male voice—so far unfamiliar to her—said. “Sorry, how did you know…?” The tell-tale lilt of confusion edged at the man’s voice. Opening the door, she discreetly suppressed the urge to roll her eyes and watched as the most infuriating man she had ever met glanced distractedly at her and took his requested coffee from her hands, some blasé “thank you” coming from his lips before he looked back to the stranger, a short man with silvery blonde cropped hair. She fought back the shiver that came with the slight electricity that always came with his touch and went to leave. His gaze, close and intense, stopped her in her tracks.

“What happened to the lipstick?” A hint of a smile—barely noticeable to anyone but her—appeared at the side of his mouth. She bit at her cheek tightly. She would not play along with him… but she did have a role to play. Damn it.

“It wasn’t working for me,” she said finally.

He raised a slight eyebrow as he turned away. “Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth’s too small now.”

Although she wanted to do nothing else but grab him by those dark curls and make him beg to apologize, she fought back her instincts and merely smiled a meek smile and nodded. “Okay.”

She could practically feel the smugness radiating from him but she couldn’t help but grin as she left, her ponytail swinging. As she advanced down the corridor, she heard him continue his conversation.

“How do you feel about the violin?”

This time, she did roll her eyes.

* * *

She was in the freezer unit when she heard the door of the morgue open. Of course, she didn’t need to ask who her new visitor was. He’d make himself known sooner rather than later and so she merrily continued to pack away any remaining body parts, humming gently as she did so.

That same humming soon dissolved into a contented moan as she felt arms snake themselves around her waist before tugging her close. With a soft sigh, she settled against the cold expanse of his chest and she smiled when she felt him dip his head and nibble gently at the space between her neck and shoulder; his favourite spot.

“You only put one sugar in my tea,” he murmured against her, nipping at her skin playfully. She hissed with pleasure and rested her hands against his, letting her fingertips caress against his skin. She bent her head back to gaze at him.

“It’ll teach you to tease me when you’re in my morgue.”

He grinned. “You can’t say you didn’t enjoy the show I put on for you just a _little_ bit.”

In an echo of their encounter in the lab, she raised an eyebrow and stepped away from him and continued with her work. It was no use. His hands soon found themselves resting against her shoulders, the leather material warm against her. He leaned close to her.

“I do so miss you when we’re working.”

“As do I, but we have a cover to maintain darling,” Molly said lightly as she turned her head to drop a kiss on his cheek. “How was your meeting by the way?”

“What, for the flatmate? Good, I suppose. Name’s John Watson, former army doctor, served in Afghanistan. Has potential. Though of course, you could always move in with me,” he murmured against her ear, before he kissed at her neck again. She slowly shook her head and turned around to face her husband, looping her arms around his neck.

“You know that can’t happen. We’re dating, remember?”

Sherlock gave a shrug. “So?”

“It would be rather improper for me to suddenly move in with you when we’ve barely spoken to one another.”

“True. How about dinner then? Tonight?”

Molly grinned and reached back, retrieving two bags filled with crimson red liquid. She pressed onto into his palm and kissed him lightly on the forehead. “I’ve already prepared it for you.”

He smiled and moved away from her slightly, lightly throwing the bag from one hand to the other. His expression widened as he looked back to her and he swooped down to capture her mouth in a short, tender kiss. “You really shouldn’t have.”

The morgue door swung open again. Stamford’s voice echoed.

“Molly? You in here?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but Molly gently squeezed his hand and kissed at his knuckles. “Hush. Wait here, I’ll go and sort out Mike.” She made to leave, but her husband’s wandering eye gave her cause to stop. Holding the edges of his jaw, she turned his face to look at her.

“Not yet, Mr Holmes.”

“But they’re only going to go to waste.”

Molly smiled a ‘don’t-touch-anything’ smile and slipped the bag into his coat pocket. Kissing his cheek again, she moved out of the unit and into the morgue. Mike grinned at her, only to immediately frown.

“Did I hear voices?”

“Just me,” she said sweetly as she shucked off her lab coat and grabbed her jacket. “I talk to myself, one of my worst habits actually. I just can’t stop—anyway, how about you? Everything good?”

Mike nodded once, laughing as he began to chatter about his wife and his kids and his family, as he was wont to do. Molly listened with a genial smile, but only really began to listen when Mike’s words turned to the business of the morgue. Of all the covers she had had to endure over the last few centuries, this was definitely chalking up to be one of her favourites. Sure, she had to play a lovelorn puppy most of the time—mostly thanks to her husband’s ego—but for the first time in years, she was getting to work with bodies again. Sometimes, hunting and feeding was so monotonous and to be honest, it was quite lovely after so many years to be the investigator and _not_ the investigated.

“So I think that’s it,” Mike finished cheerfully. “Got anything good planned tonight?”

She gave a nonchalant shrug. “Nothing much. Just feeding Toby and myself, I guess.” With that useless bit of information provided to him, Mike bid her a cheery goodbye and left without a word. It was only when the door swung closed behind him that she grinned wider and turned, only to come face-to-face with a pouting husband.

“You honestly didn’t have to keep him talking for that long.”

“I kind of did. He would’ve suspected otherwise.” Flicking a small grin at him, she reached forward and slipped her hand inside his coat pocket to tease the edges of the blood bag she had hidden inside there.

“Now come on,” she said silkily, reaching up and cupping at his cheek. “I’m famished.”

Turning his head a little, he kissed gently at her palm, only to lightly bite down when she let out an approving moan, his tongue lapping quickly and deftly at any wounds he may have inflicted. Her eyes flashed black. Slowly, she drew her hand away and shook her head.

“Mr Holmes…” She stepped towards and reached up on her tiptoes. “You really shouldn’t do that to your wife.”

He shrugged. “I suppose not - but then where would the fun be if I didn’t?”

He moved away and picked up the thin, pliable riding crop from the table. Her smile widened and she flushed a brief shade of pink as he slid the tool into her hands.

Carefully and awfully lovingly, she caressed at his cheek with its end, grabbing onto his lapels and pulling him down towards her until their foreheads were pressed together.

“You really should ask before stealing someone’s tools.”

When Sherlock only shrugged once more, she let out a soft laugh and closed the small gap between them, allowing him to scoop her into his arms as the riding crop dropped to the floor.

Three centuries, and she was yet to be bored by her husband, the utterly infuriating, eternally childish and forever charming Sherlock Holmes.

That had to be some kind of record.


	62. Eternal Trust and Bond. (Vamplock Part 2) (Dom!Molly)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: A second part to my vamplock ficlet.
> 
> I set this post-ASiB, and the following fic is explicit. It contains smut, dom/sub dynamics and bloodplay. Rating for this story is Explicit.

He had to thank the Adler woman. She’d had no idea of the power he wielded, and so she had been rather… free in her will to use her sexual and feminine wiles over him. As such, she had proven to be quite the intriguing case, but in the end, he’d won over her.

A light _thwack_ sounded against his stomach.

"You’re thinking of her again."

And that was why he needed to thank her. He let out a groan and pulled a little at the bonds around his wrists, listening to the slow, lazy hum of the ceiling fan above him. It was designed to combat the heat, but in the end, it only served to move the heat into different areas of the hotel room. Sweat stuck to him. Although currently blind, he turned his head as he heard the gentle barefooted steps of his wife move around the edge of the bed. The bed itself was lumpy, uncomfortable. Far from what he—and she—was used to.

He shivered as he felt fingers scratch lightly against the edge of his cheek. She drew her hand away, stopping only to swirl a fingertip against his skin, tracing the line of his cheeks and jaw. He squirmed happily, feeling the familiar sense of release that came with their play as she traced her nails down, down his body, palming and massaging against his flesh, only pausing to pinch and tweak at his nipples. He gave out a tiny, low yelp followed by a chuckle. So she was having just as much fun as he was. That was good. His breath caught as he felt her loose waves of hair settle against his chest and neck as she bent over him. Her hand sunk into his curls, and she clutched tightly, measuring exactly the pain that shot through his scalp. Not too much, but never too little either.

"I’m still cross with you," she murmured into his ear, her breath cool against his skin. She clutched his curls tighter and he couldn’t help but hiss as he bucked a little, his erection pressing hard against the cloth of his trousers. She’d surprised him with that—shirtless, not naked. It was vastly different from their usual play. It was also another signal to him of just how much he had upset her. She dropped a kiss to the bottom of his jaw. "Apologize."

"I’m sorry," he gasped. If she continued in this way, he’d be begging for release. He felt the breath of her laugh skim against him as she drew her hand away.

"Now," she said, her voice more distant. "Tell me why you married me."

He felt her weight drop carefully onto the bed and he swallowed slightly, mouth dry with anticipation as he felt her knees nudge between his thighs. He could see her now, pertly knelt on her ankles between his legs, head tilted in that way only unique to her and smiling innocently. Her palms came to rest against the lower part of his stomach.

"Your intelligence," he said thickly as she teasingly moved her hands towards his trousers, toying idly with the button. "Your… passion."

"How flattering of you," she muttered, almost absentmindedly. Her hands slowly popped open his trouser button.

"Do you wish to continue?" she asked sweetly as she slowly drew the trousers away from him, now leaving him completely naked. He nodded slowly. She settled back onto the bed and straddled him, taking his now fully erect cock in hand, eliciting a low voiced groan from him. She laughed softly and cupped at his cheek.

"Tell me truly. For what other reasons did you marry me?" she asked as she began to slowly move her hand along the length of his shaft. He bucked against her hand; a strangled gasp escaped him.

"Because… Molly, please…"

He felt her lips catch his pleading moans with a tender, loving and deliciously wanton kiss and she sighed into his mouth, her other hand coming up to cup at his cheek as she sank onto him. It only served to excite him more to know that she was as wet, as ready and as wanting as him. She began with slow, conscious movements, cupping at his shoulders as she remained bent over him. He strained against the bonds around his wrists, the moans and curses flipping from his lips with little to no restraint now. Always methodical in her work, she gradually quickened their pace and kissed and nipped at him, tracing her mouth against his jaw and his neck, her touch alternately rough and light. Endorphins filled him. Reaching the space where his neck and shoulder met, she clasped him tighter—on a mortal, bruises would have formed—and began to suck lasciviously at his skin with her teeth. He felt her fangs prick against him, and more, filthier, moans spilled out of him.

"Because I love you," he found himself gasping. She pressed a brief kiss to his neck and finally sank her fangs into his neck. Any thoughts—of Adler, of terrorist groups, of codes—disappeared from him. He thought of nothing; only felt. Groans and moans and screams of pleasure flooded from both of them as they reached their peak. She quaked violently against his cock and he let himself go, letting his seed spill into her. She kissed at him, the taste of his blood on her lips. He couldn’t see her, but he could feel her and hear her. That was more than enough however. He nuzzled against her and she breathed an affectionate laugh before she kissed at the tip of his nose and he heard the bed creak as she carefully got off. For the next few minutes, he listened to her barefoot walk and the hum of the ceiling fan as she untied him from his bonds and rubbed at his wrists, planting a kiss on the inside of his wrist at each turn. His blindfold was the last thing to be removed and he blinked in the harsh light, focusing on his wife, who was stood over him, wrapping the blindfold subconsciously around her knuckles. He smiled and reached forward, taking her by the waist and pulling her down towards him. She let out a shriek of surprise which quickly dissolved into laughter as he peppered her shoulder with kisses.

"Are you sure you’re okay?" she asked a few moments later with her arms around his shoulders, holding him tightly as she lapped gently at his neck, healing his wound. Sherlock nodded and briefly leaned away from her to pick a stolen blood bag from the beside drawer, piercing the plastic with his teeth to suck from it.

"We’ve been doing this for three centuries Molly," he said, the sheen of blood traced against his bottom lip. "I’m sure I can cope."

Molly smiled and snuggled against him as they lay back, allowing him space to tuck his chin against the top of her head.

"I feel kind of annoyed at myself," she muttered after a moment, idly tracing patterns against his chest with her fingers while he stroked at her arm. His eyes narrowed as he looked to her.

"Why?"

"Well, we’ve often met women who fall at your feet—it’s those cheekbones I think—so why did she… affect me? Why was I jealous?"

"Because she was a dom," Sherlock said bluntly. "You felt threatened."

"I suppose. For a mortal, she’s clearly good at what she does."

"Yes, but you forget, Mrs Holmes," he ran his fingers through her hair as he spoke, "I am not one for mortal tastes. I much prefer you."

A grin flicked on Molly’s mouth as she propped herself onto one arm, cuddling him at his waist with her other. “So why are we in a hotel near Karachi with the plan to infiltrate a terrorist cell and stave off Irene Adler’s execution?”

"You know why," Sherlock said as he dropped the now empty blood bag onto the floor before he tenderly kissed at just above her breast, his hand at her hip. "The Woman is more valuable to my brother alive than dead."

"I know," Molly said softly before she sunk her fingers into his curls and pulled him up to kiss him on his mouth. "Now come on. We both should rest. Terrorists aren’t as… _flexible_ as you are, Mr Holmes.”

Drawing the covers over herself, she settled against him. Sherlock smiled as he affectionately stroked at her hair.

"I love you," he whispered against her, and she hummed contentedly before she gave one of his nipples a tiny flick. He hissed slightly and grinned before he held her closer, causing her to giggle.

"I love you too."


	63. Misdiagnosis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Sherlock realises how he feels about Molly. However, he doesn't know what is wrong with him because he's never felt like that. So he thinks he's going insane, and he asks Mary and John for advice.

"I’m having a heart attack."

"Really?" John said with a sardonic smile and a raise of his eyebrows.

"This is serious John!" Sherlock snapped before dramatically throwing himself into an armchair. "I’ve - I’ve got - my heart’s racing. My breath’s short."

A cup of coffee in her hands, Mary stepped inside the living room as Sherlock continued to reel off his ‘symptoms’. Remaining quiet, she only settled down beside her husband and watched the consulting detective with an air of amusement.

"There’s this pain in my chest, I’m sure of it—"

"What does it feel like?"

Sherlock gave his answer without hesitation. “Hollow.”

Mary skillfully stifled a giggle and took a sip of her coffee, watching as John stood and moved over to his friend, poking at his cheek. Sherlock flinched, and frowned.

"Are you sure you’re a doctor?" he asked irritably.

"Yep," John said with a nod as he poked at Sherlock’s temple. "I’m just making sure you’ve still got that brain of yours."

Sherlock shot up. “Of course I do! And what on earth does that have to do with my having a heart attack?! Honestly, I thought that might be higher on your list of priorities as an army doctor.”

"Well, it isn’t, because you first have to be actually _having_ a heart attack.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed in confusion, to which John sighed and glanced to Mary in a subtle message of help-me-out-here.

"Sherlock…"

"What?"

"When do these symptoms actually start?"

He gave a shrug. “Usually at St. Bart’s.”

"And I’m guessing they happen when Molly shows up?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but he immediately shut it again. Realization flooded his face. He slowly shook his head.

"No, I can’t be—" He looked to John. "You think so too. Are you sure?"

John nodded. “I’m also pretty sure you’re a massive clot.”

Sherlock made an expression akin to a wounded animal, and his mouth dropped open.

"Who’s a massive clot?"

All three of them turned to see that Molly had arrived, dressed in a light coloured summer dress with her hair, as ever, tied back. On seeing the hesitation on Sherlock’s face and the amusement on Mary and John’s faces, she smiled a hesitant smile.

"Sorry, did I come at a bad time?"

"No! Not at all," Mary said brightly, much to the consternation of Sherlock who frowned deeply at her. Mary decided to ignore him, moving towards Molly. "Did you need anything?"

"No, no—I was just nearby, and thought I’d pop round—Sherlock, are you okay?" Her concern was somewhat necessary, as as she had begun to speak, Sherlock had begun to pace, muttering under his breath as he ruffled his curls, his gaze occasionally darting from his feet towards her and back again. Hearing her voice, he jolted to a stop.

"Okay? Fine, absolutely fine."

Mary raised her eyebrows but kept silent on the issue of Sherlock’s feelings for Molly. Instead, she smiled wider at Molly.

"Coffee?"

"That would be great," Molly said with a smile. "Milk, one sugar please."

"Lovely. John, you might want to check on Harriet?"

"Oh, yeah. ‘Course." Quickly, the husband and wife team scuttled from the room, giggling to themselves.

* * *

Molly breathed out slowly and perched on the edge of the sofa, brushing gently at her knees. Sherlock had finally sat down, but the atmosphere was still strange; unfamiliar. Something bubbled under the surface, something unsaid. Molly had the strangest feeling it was however not her holding something back, but Sherlock. She attempted to speak, but was cut off by Sherlock standing up again. He cleared his throat and buttoned up his jacket, as if to strengthen himself or at least build up some courage.

"I have feelings for you."

A flood of cold water hit her. She stuttered and tried to breathe, but found she couldn’t. Her heart began to pound.

"Feelings?" she asked quietly. "You have feelings for _me_?”

"I experience shortness of breath and my heart races whenever you’re in my company. Unless you have an uncanny ability to cause heart attacks from a mere look, then I’d say that yes; I have feelings for you. Have had them for a while now, it seems."

"Why now? If you’ve had them before, why didn’t you just… tell me?"

"Number of things," he said with a shrug. "My own stubborn nature, my altercation with The Woman, a mindset that sentiment is a disadvantage—thank my brother for that—and my brief relapse into drugs are just a few of the obstacles. There are most likely more."

"Knowing you," she said softly, a smile forming. Sherlock nodded once and sat on the sofa beside her, taking her by the hand.

"Molly, if you do the entirely unwise thing and accept me as a partner, then I should let you know that I will be a terrible boyfriend. I’m far from qualified, I will irritate you at least three times a week at minimum, invade your flat at inappropriate hours and according to John, I am incapable of knocking on doors. I even loathe the word ‘boyfriend’. It’s immature and facile, more suited to 13 year olds than actual adults."

He finally paused, if only to take a nervous, shaking breath. Molly gazed at him and had to swallow a laugh. Only Sherlock Holmes would make a declaration of romantic feelings sound like a job application—but that was the way in which his mind worked. Molly squeezed his hand and smiled.

"That’s wonderful, Sherlock." She smiled wider and pressed a soft kiss to the edge of his mouth before she spoke again. "Because if I’m honest, I’ll make a terrible girlfriend. I’m useless with birthdays, tend to get lost in my work and frankly, I’m hopeless at dating."

Sherlock chuckled and kissed briefly at her hand.

"Sounds like a perfect match to me."

"How can you be sure without proper experimenting?"

"I’m a graduate chemist Molly. I’m trained to experiment. Multiple times."

"Glad to hear it."


	64. Tickle War.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Sherlolly tickle war, with Sherlock as a sore loser.

"Blood pressure is normal, which is excellent for someone in your—" Sherlock shifted his shoulders slightly and swallowed thickly. Molly’s fingers continued to walk their way up his back and across his shoulder blades. He let out a shaking breath. "In your state. Molly, please concentrate, this is important."

"I am concentrating," Molly said all-too-sweetly. Her fingers traced at the nape of his neck. "You have a lovely neck, you know."

“ _Molly_ ,” he said firmly, to which she giggled and dropped herself back on the bed and the nest of pillows he had assembled for her. He glanced back at her, noted her greedy gaze and pursed his lips before he continued to scribble in his notebook.

Molly huffed a sigh and sat up again.

"Okay, fine, I’ll play. How are my stats?" she asked, tucking her chin onto his shoulder. He lifted his notebook so she could see a little clearer and looked at her, dropping a quick kiss on her cheek.

"Excellent. Better than I estimated actual- _lly!_ " He jerked up, and Molly laughed. She brushed against the side of his ribs again and earned another yelp for her troubles.

"Don’t – _do_ that!” he snapped as he shifted away from her, eying her fingers carefully. Molly still smiled as she shifted closer, one hand on her tiny, rounded belly.

"Okay, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again."

Five minutes later, Sherlock was a panting, sweaty mess and his pathologist was on top of him, legs wrapped tightly around his hips. A laugh on her lips, her fingers traveled quickly over his torso, dissolving the consulting detective into a thrashing mess of limbs.

"Molly, this – isn’t – fair!"

"Do you give up?" she said over his protests.

"Yes – bloody hell – _yes!_ ”

She pinned his arms at either side of his head and smiled down at him, but he only frowned. Laughing softly, she leaned closer to him.

"You’re only sore because I’m pregnant and I beat you."

Sherlock humphed, but quickly smiled and reached up to kiss her on the nose. “Correction: I _let_ you win _because_ you’re pregnant.”

Molly scoffed. “Liar.” She released his arms and sat up straight, brushing her hair from her eyes. Sherlock grinned wider and wrapped his arms around her to pull her back towards him. She laughed again and cupped at his face to press a gentle kiss on his mouth. His hand palmed at her rounded belly.

"Give it six more months Miss Hooper, and you’ll be the panting mess."

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that a promise?”

Sherlock said nothing, but the fervent kiss he pressed to her mouth gave her a good enough idea of his answer.


	65. Singin' in the Rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small fic, inspired by a scene from the eponymous film. Not a prompt fill.

When Molly Hooper set out in her car for the evening, she hadn’t expected much. After the call from the company had come through, she’d packed her things and clambered inside, only stopping to check the address. From that point onwards, it was a rather peaceful drive.

That was why the sight of a man jumping into the passenger seat caused her to scream so loudly.

Too focused on screaming, she barely caught a glimpse of his face.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

"Just drive!" the man yelled back, but she shook her head.

"Who are you?!" she said quickly, breathless in her panic. "Get out of my car! Please don’t hurt me!" She looked at him properly, and found herself gasping. She had seen him somewhere before, definitely! Those dark curls, blue eyes, the torn suit—he had to be a criminal, or something!

"I’m not a criminal!" the man said irritably (it was at that point Molly came to realise she had said all of her thoughts aloud). "Just keep driving—I just need a quick lift—"

"I’m not giving a lift to a criminal!" she said shrilly and before he could protest anymore, she pulled her car to the kerb and waved down a passing police officer.

"Officer!" she cried. "This man, he just jumped into my car—"

"Why, it’s Sherlock Holmes ain’t it?"

Her mouth dropped open and she turned her head to look at her unexpected passenger. Now that she thought about it… he did bear an astonishing resemblance to the man. The policeman grinned, his attention fully on her passenger.

"Out for a drive, Mr Holmes?"

"Just a lift, I assure you."

"Very well," the policeman said with a tip of his cap. "You’re a lucky girl, Miss…"

"Hooper," she said quietly, suppressing a blush.

"A lot of girls would kill to have Mr Holmes in their car! Well, goodnight." With that, he continued to move down the street. Molly slowly looked to her passenger, Sherlock Holmes, famous movie star and owner of one ruined suit.

"Well," he said after a moment, "while this has been lovely, I have to go."

"Wait!" she blurted out as he opened the door. He raised an eyebrow at her. "I, er, I’m driving up to Mayfair. Do you—"

"Do I need dropping off anywhere?" he finished for her, and she nodded. He sighed lightly. "I would like to get out of this suit if you happen to be going by Savile Row."

"I can make a detour," she said with a hesitant smile. When he nodded and shut the passenger door, she started the car once again and tried desperately not to act as if she were at all nervous at the idea of having Sherlock Holmes in her car.

They drove for a little while in silence. It was him who broke it.

"And whose hospitality am I enjoying?"

"Molly," she said a little too brightly and she immediately internally cringed at her tone. She cleared her throat. "Molly Hooper."

"Good to know. I apologise if I frightened you earlier, which I undoubtedly did." He pulled at his ruined suit. "My fans grew a little… overenthusiastic on seeing me."

"They did that? To you? Oh dear. That’s—not very good."

"No," he said slowly, glancing at her. "Not very good at all. And I don’t suppose you would ever dream of accosting your favourite actor?"

Something about his tone told her he was teasing her.

"Not at all—but I don’t go to the movies much. I don’t have the time."

"Oh? Are you too busy falsely accusing men who jump into your car in a moment of panic?"

"I don’t have many men jumping into my car," she said, looking at him briefly. "Anyway, I tend to prefer the theatre."

His expression darkened with annoyance. “Really.”

She nodded. “I mean, I do go to the movies when I can—that’s where I recognized you from I think. I saw one—once. We went for my mother’s birthday, you see, and—you’re not interested in what I did for my mother’s birthday. Sorry. I’ll be quiet.”

"No, please. Tell me how theatre is so much better than film."

She’d offended him. Of course she had. Her and her big mouth.

"I don’t think either film or theatre are better than either, really. I just prefer theatre. The movies are so—they’re like a pantomime to me. So many gestures and—it’s like my dad said: if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them…" She trailed off on seeing his petulant expression and swallowed a little, fixing her gaze back on the road. "Seen them all."

"So I’m not a proper actor, is that it? Because I don’t talk?"

"Well, if you want me to be honest, yes. No-one looks clever doing madcap gestures. Especially if they’re supposed to be doing drama."

"Some people might say we don’t do it to be _clever_ ; that we do it to entertain.”

"I know, but no-one can be entertained by facial expressions all the time. Can they?"

"You tell me," he grumbled, sinking further into the passenger seat in a sulk. "You’re the one that _knows_ everything.”

"I don’t know everything. I didn’t know your face."

His only reply to that was a _humph_ of a sigh. She worried at her bottom lip. The first and last time she would have Sherlock Holmes in her car, and she had annoyed him into silence. Just her luck.

* * *

They arrived at Savile Row a few moments later, much to her relief. Pulling up to the kerb, she closed her eyes and waited patiently for him to leave.

"So what I do isn’t acting? That’s what you’re saying?"

"No! Yes. Maybe. I just think it’s a pity you don’t get to say all those glorious words."

"What glorious words?"

She gave a shrug. “You know—Shakespeare, Ibsen, Marlowe. Without words, you’re just a… ghost, I suppose.”

He straightened up, and turned to face her. “A ghost? I’m a ghost.”

"Basically. I mean, you’re not flesh and blood, are you? Well, you are because you’re here, and we’re talking, and—what are you doing?!" she squeaked, her hand splayed on his chest. The reason for her surprise was clear. As she had spoken, he had leaned closer and closer to her until he was practically looming over her, his mouth inches from hers.

"Nothing," he said with a grin. "I am after all a shadow. I’m not flesh and blood—how can I hurt you, lofty theatre fan that you are?"

"You know that’s not what I meant!" she shouted, pushing him back onto the seat. He grinned wider as she glared, cheeks flushed. "Just because you’re a big movie star, that doesn’t mean you can push yourself onto any girl you like!"

"Oh, do relax. I was merely joking. Do you really think I would attack a girl in her own car on a public street?"

"You’re a movie star," she spat, crossing her arms. "There’s no telling what you might do!"

"I can assure you, I don’t get involved with any romantic entanglements. Despite what any gossip magazine,"—he said those words with particular venom—"might have you believe."

"I don’t _read_ gossip magazines.”

"No, I suppose you prefer to be curled up with the complete works of Shakespeare," he said drily.

"They’re more entertaining than anything you might do!" she retorted. She didn’t know why or how he had riled her so quickly, but riled her he had. Maybe he just had one of those personalities. He flicked a grin at her and clambered out of the car, turning to face her as he closed the door.

"Terribly sorry to have inconvenienced you so much this evening," he said silkily. "But I must admit, it has been lovely talking to you. For now though, Miss Molly Hooper, I must tear myself from your side."

There was a loud _rip_ as he stepped away from the car and one half of his jacket fell from his arm, still trapped in the door. Molly collapsed into peals of laughter and watched, tears in her eyes, as he mumbled a string of swear words and retrieved his torn jacket from her door before he gathered it up in his arms and turned to give her a mock bow.

"Until we meet again, Miss Hooper."

She managed to compose herself enough to nod her head at him in a brief farewell. “May that never happen, Mr Holmes.”

It was with those words that the two parted ways.

* * *

Unfortunately for Molly Hooper, it would only be a few hours before she was reunited with famous movie star Sherlock Holmes. Her greatest misfortune however would be the fact that their reunion would come via her jumping out of a cake.


	66. Tender Loving Care. (Genderswap)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Molly (Matt) giving Sherlock (Sheryll) a bit of TLC.

"Told you bethore. I'm _nob_ sick,” Sheryll muttered and as she curled up tighter on the bed, surrounded by crumpled up tissues and with a hot bottle pressed against her stomach, Matt sighed and gently sat beside her, wiping carefully at her runny eyes.

"Yes you are," he breathed against her before he dropped a kiss on her cheek. She groaned and rolled away from him, curling tighter against her hot water bottle, which she had clung to ever since Matt had performed the impossible and managed to get her to at least lie on her bed. Matt chuckled and crawled towards the grumpy lump that was his ill girlfriend. Stroking at her shoulder, he kissed at the tips of her ear.

"Go away," Sheryll mumbled, flapping a hand uselessly, but he defiantly stayed where he was and gently brushed her long curls from her face.

"It’s just a bout of a summer cold. You’ll be fine in no time."

"Summer colds are needless," she said grumpily, managing to lift her head to look at him. Matt almost laughed. Even when she looked a sight, she was beautiful.

"They’re not needless—everyone gets them, it’s just your body getting rid of those horrible toxins."

"I’m not a child, and I’m not everyone. A- _choo!_ " The sound of her sneeze echoed around the bedroom, and this time Matt did laugh, passing her another fresh tissue as he did so.

"Well, your _mind_ isn’t like everyone’s but your biology is basically the same. You don’t help it by not eating.”

"Is this your version of nursing?" she asked with a raised eyebrow. "To tell me everything I do is wrong?"

"Of course not," Matt said as he settled beside her and hugged her close, letting his hands encircle around the base of her stomach. "I just know that you’ll hate me even more if I played the sympathetic nurse."

"Urgh," Sheryll said reflexively. "Sympathy’s boring. If I wanted sympathy, I’d go to my mother for help."

"And that’s why you’ve got me."

"And I should be grateful for that?"

Matt grinned and leaned towards her ear. “If you don’t stop being so grumpy miss, I’ll use your real name.”

She turned her head and gave him her most venomous glare. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

"Then stop being grumpy," he said brightly before he kissed lightly at her mouth.

"You do know with every kiss you give me, you heighten the chances of getting sick yourself."

Matt grinned and held her tighter before he leaned in to kiss her again. “I’m willing to take that risk.”


	67. Wishing Well. (Older Sherlolly)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Sherlock and Molly are out for a walk in the woods, they come across a wishing well, Sherlock refuses to throw a coin into the well and make a wish and Molly gets a bit sad, but Sherlock then tells her he doesn't need to make a wish because he is happy, with her, she is his wish.

Having her husband in a nursing home was difficult. That part was true. Some days, she sat at home and wished she could join him so they could be sick together. Those were the days where sadness seemed to follow her. Yet there were other days; other days where she’d visit him, and see him, frail as he was, still manage to frustrate the ever living hell out of the nurses and doctors who tried to look after him.

There was one thing however, that never changed. Her visits.

Every day, she would walk into that nursing home, go upstairs (she could still manage the stairs, despite what that receptionist seemed to think) and enter into his room, to find him sat in his chair and thinking, as he was wont to do. She would gently pat at his shoulder or his hand and he’d smile and reach up to kiss at her cheek. Often, they just sat and talked or reminisced but more often than not, if he was feeling strong enough, they’d go outside for a walk.

Today was one of those days. They’d found a small piece of woodland just beyond the boundary of the nursing home, and Sherlock had smiled as together, they listened to the soft crunch of autumn leaves under their feet and the rustle of tree branches from the stiff breeze. His silver curls ruffled against the weather, and she laughed lightly at the sight. He immediately frowned, a silent inquisitive question but she only murmured she loved him—as she was wont to do—and caressed his wrinkled hand with her fingers. His only response was to complain at how cold they were.

* * *

After a while, they came to a little clearing. The air was chilly as ever, but there was a tranquility about the place they hadn’t found so far. The tree branches didn’t rustle, but seemed to move lightly with the wind and the frost that tinged at the leaves seemed to heighten their beauty, not squander it. It was akin to something from a fairytale, she told him.

"And I suppose there’s a fountain too?" he asked dryly, and Molly could do nothing but laugh.

"Not quite—it’s a well." The surface of it was sprinkled with the lightest of frosts and vines of ivy had wrapped itself around the bottom and in the very cracks of the weather-worn bricks. She stepped forward to inspect it, still keeping a tight hold on her husband.

"It’s a wishing well," she said softly. Behind her, she heard Sherlock move forward, resting his hand against the cool brick. He smiled, his gaze moving towards her.

"If you say so."

She rummaged in her pockets with one hand. “Do you want to throw a coin in? Make a wish?”

"No," he said shortly, turning his head away quickly. Molly’s smile slipped from her face, but she squeezed her fingers tighter around his hand before bending her head to kiss at his knuckles.

He must have sensed her anguish, for she felt his hand slip against her cheek and into her hair.

"I’m sorry," he said softly. "We can throw in a coin if you wish to."

She shook her head and straightened up. “No. It’s okay; we’d be best getting you back. You must be tired.”

He said nothing as she gently hooked his arm around hers and he continued to remain silent as she steered them away from the well and back through the wood.

He did speak however, when she sniffled slightly. Silly man thought she was crying.

"I did not mean to upset you Molly. But the truth is, I felt no need to throw in a coin. I saw no reason to waste money on a wish that has already been fulfilled."

Now she was crying. It didn’t help she knew exactly what he meant. Quietly, she wiped at her eyes with one hand and snuggled closer to him.

"You stupid man," she whispered against the fabric of his well-worn Belstaff coat. "You silly, silly genius."

"Very silly indeed," he murmured, nuzzling at the top of her head and dropping a kiss on her hair. He patted softly at her hand.

"Now, come on. You were going to paint for me, weren’t you? I’d very much like to know where I’m going."

 _Paint for me._ That was the phrase he used. Other people used other words, but he preferred those. It was more poetic, he claimed; made the whole thing a little less morbid. They continued to walk down the woodland path, and Molly talked, her voice slow and melodious, making sure he caught every word that came from her lips.

"Okay. The path we’re walking down is quite narrow—that’s why I’m holding onto you so tightly. The ground’s a bit wet and muddy. I’m guessing there was rain around here about… a day ago? Yes. A day ago. Don’t worry; I won’t let you slip. The trees run either side of the path. They’re black poplars—that’s quite lucky, they’re pretty rare nowadays—and their trunks are all gnarled. The leaves are shaped like hearts, funny that." She picked off a leaf and folded it between her fingers. "Can you hear that crunch? That’s the frost that, right at the edges. There’s some interesting fungi at the base of them though; I’ll have to pick up some samples later…"

She continued to paint for him all the way back to the home, where they slipped into the warm and slowly made their way upstairs and back into his room. He settled into his chair slowly (brought over from the house when he was moved in—impossible man wouldn’t accept any other one) and finally released his grip on Molly, his hands shakily settling against the leather of the seat. Molly watched him, her husband of 60 years, and smiled. Raising her hand to run it affectionately through his now ruffled curls, she bent down and pressed a tender kiss on his mouth.

His eyes, clouded by blindness but somehow still sharp as ever, focused on her for the first time that day.

"The sun’s setting now," she said softly and she cupped at his jaw, not taking her eyes off him for a second.

"What colour is it?"

"Orange, for the most part, but there’s this huge ribbon of purple - not dark purple, but a rich, ripe berry shade of purple - running through it. A flick of yellow too, but I can’t be sure. That’s probably just the remains of the sun I suppose."

She felt his fingers close around her free hand. He smiled. “Thank you, Molly Hooper.”

"For what?"

He shrugged. “Being you.”


	68. The Hunt for Glasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: More Older!Sherlolly.

Molly sighed and glanced down at the floor where her husband, flecks of grey streaked through his dark hair, was on his knees.

Muttering to himself, he crawled carefully around the living room. The only times in which he paused were to duck his head down in front of some tiny space, scramble with his hand for a moment or two before he shook his head and continued on in his search.

"Sherlock?" she asked after a while, her voice gentle. "What’s wrong?"

"I can’t find my glasses," he said over his shoulder as he reached up and looked underneath the cushions of his armchair.

"What do you need them for?"

"What I always need them for," he said irritably before he gave a cry of triumph and he reached down the side of his armchair to bring out a pair of thinly framed spectacles. Molly spluttered a laugh as he slipped them on and wrinkled his nose at her.

"And there you were looking underneath bookshelves—why are you looking at me like that?" she asked quickly. The reason for her shift in mood was plain to see: as she had spoken, Sherlock had got to his feet and stepped towards her, looming over her as he squinted. He grinned.

"Just using my glasses."

"You’re not using them, you’re just staring at me."

He shook his head. “No I’m not. I’m actually looking at these,” he said playfully, raising his hands to touch around her eyes. His fingertips moved to point at the dimples in her cheeks. “And these too.”

Molly smiled and setting her newspaper on her lap, she cupped at his wrinkled hands.

"You, sir, are an idiot." She kissed gently at his nose. "And I love you very much for it."


	69. The Domesticator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Molly interacting with Sherlock's dad.

The door shut quietly behind him. “So you’re The Domesticator.”

Molly almost spluttered her tea back into its cup. “Th-the what?”

Gregory Holmes gave a reassuring grin. “Don’t worry. It’s my wife’s nickname for you. Ever since learning you managed to tame Sherlock, she’s chattered non-stop about you.”

"But—" Molly let her sentence die away. Domesticator? What was that supposed to mean? Gregory must’ve seen her puzzled expression, for he gave a hearty laugh and turned to stoke at the fireplace.

"My wife never thought our Sherlock would ever be in a relationship, you see. So you’re something of a hero in this household." He turned to look at her. "I’m inclined to agree with her."

Molly giggled as she shifted against the sofa and drew the blanket over her knees, before she rested one hand against her swollen belly.

"Good to know," she said finally, caressing at her stomach. Her hand stilled when she felt the telltale sign of a small kick against her palm. She couldn’t help but smile.

"Active little one then?"

She nodded. “Mm.”

"I’ll get Sherlock," Gregory said after a moment, making to leave. When the door shut behind him once more, Molly allowed herself a shaking breath. Her eyes fluttered closed as she focused her attention on the slow, methodical kicking that took place against her palm.

She didn’t hear the door open again, and she didn’t hear the small murmurings between father and son as Gregory pointed her out. The only time her attention was drawn away from the life inside her stomach was when she felt Sherlock’s large hand cover hers. She finally allowed herself to look up, and without a word, she drew her hand away and pressed his palm against the place where their child had kicked just a few moments earlier.

A smile widened on Sherlock’s mouth and he remained there, crouched in front of her with his palm on her stomach, as he felt their child stir within her. Molly smiled as she watched him. He was so warm against her; tender and caring. Despite his worries, he’d be a marvelous father. She knew that. She could see it, in his smile.

The smile he wore not just at this very moment, but whenever the baby was mentioned. Whenever he happened to catch sight of her belly, swollen with his offspring.

"Can you feel it?" she asked softly. He only gave a nod, apparently dumbstruck by the shot of life she’d given him to swallow. He lifted his gaze towards her, and she could’ve sworn to felt her heart swell three sizes.

Careful of the obstacle formed by her pregnancy, she leaned down towards him. Fortunately, he picked up her message and moved up to meet her, cupping at her neck as their mouths pressed together in a short, tender embrace. Pressing her forehead against his, she bit at her lip and giggled.

"The Domesticator," she murmured. "I kind of like that."

Sherlock shrugged. “My mother always did have a strange sense of humour.”

Molly kissed him lightly on his cheek. “I can see where she gets it from.”


	70. Yo Ho and a Bottle of Rum. (Pirate!lock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Historical Sherlolly.
> 
> Which somehow turned into pirate!lock. I regret very little about that particular situation.

Life for an aristocrat was many things. Privileged. Easy. _Dull._

Yes, of everything his life was, it was most certainly that. Daily, his mind raced, but there was nothing that quenched it. Books aided him in idly passing the time, the information within them being absorbed as quickly as he could read them. His experiments eased the pain of his mind a little, but those too were over far too quickly for him to be truly satisfied.

He did often entertain the idea of solving things, but the problem with that was that nothing ever happened on the damn island he had the great misfortune to call his home. If there were any crimes to be committed, they were usually of the social kind with some lord’s daughter running off with a blacksmith.

So there he was, a genius stuck inside a house on an island unable to placate the thoughts that plagued him. It was enough to send an ordinary man mad.

Of course, he could’ve done what many lords did. He could’ve married and kept a mistress. Keeping two women would never be boring, a lord claimed to him once during some god awful society ball. The lord’s words had been followed by a hearty chuckle. He however had merely turned away and tried to find someone a little less lecherous to converse with.

It was best, he decided, that he continued on with his bachelorhood.

And that he did.

* * *

Over the years, he found himself falling into a routine of some sort. He would wake early, when the servants were busy preparing the household, and he would bathe and dress himself. After that, he would make his way through the house, ignoring the muttered greetings and slight bows or curtsies that the servants would give him and he would head down to the stables. There, he would prepare and saddle the horse of his choosing.

Once he was astride, he would head out of the grounds and down towards the ribbon of white sand that wrapped itself around the island. It was there that he would spend a good hour of his morning galloping up and down the stretch outside the house. It was when the sun rose over the horizon that he would finally come to a stop and dismount, leading the horse back to the stables and slipping back inside the house to sleep until midday. The rest of the day he would usually find himself either in his laboratory—reluctantly built by his brother—or the library, the only disturbance to his time being the housekeeper Mrs Hudson bringing him some food and urging him to eat once in a while.

As a result, he soon became known in the circles of high society as somewhat of an eccentric, a fact which both amused him and displeased his brother. Occasionally, his brother or the few people he had designated his friends would try in vain to get him to at least “show his face” in society, but those attempts always ended in failure.

There was one occasion though which did interrupt this languid routine of his. It had been in the middle of a mild winter, and had taken place during his morning ride. He was halfway down the beach when he saw it. A longboat; wrecked and scattered across the shore. Beside the longboat was a figure, unconscious, thin. Frowning, he dismounted his horse and approached the wreckage. He had to admit, there was a small amount of pleasure to be found in the sight. At last—something exciting. Something _different._

He got closer, and found that the figure was that of a man, laid on his front—a starving man, if the sores around his mouth and the violent shivering were anything to go by. Brown-haired, his beard was matted, tangled with dirt and sand. His clothes were basically rags, the remnants of a basic undershirt and trousers, and his skin was grimy, the sweat glistening on the back of his palms. Carefully, Sherlock rolled the man over onto his back. That was where he saw it, on the left side of his chest: a deep scar, in the shape of the letter “P”. That could only mean one thing. Sherlock had rescued a pirate.

Any normal man would have left the man to die, but Sherlock Holmes was no ordinary man.

For once, something had happened on this godforsaken isle. He would be damned if he was going to let it end any time soon.

* * *

He bid his servants care for the man. They clothed him, fed him and Sherlock sent for a doctor to examine. As the man recovered, Sherlock took upon himself to speak to him. The man was however, like all pirates, tight-lipped about how he had come to be found. He accepted the help given to him with a good grace, and according to the servants who attended to him he was erudite in speech and sound of mind.

His brother of course, was less than pleased about the presence of a fugitive within the household. He complained—oh, did he complain. “It’ll upset Mother,” he claimed on one of his visits. “You shall never be able to show your face in society again.”

“Good,” had been the only reply.

Two weeks passed before the mystery made any kind of progress. It came as somewhat of a surprise to Sherlock, who had been inside the library at the time and had been quite engrossed in the reading of a case about cannibals. It was morbid reading, but intriguing nonetheless.

When he heard a knock on the door, he glanced up.

“Mr Holmes?” said the man. The commonality of his accent was rough in the quiet environment of the library. “The – the housekeeper told me you’d be here.”

Sherlock put his reading to one side. “I usually am. And what is it you want to tell me?”

“I didn’t say if I wanted to tell you anything yet.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Please. It was obvious.”

The man nodded. He shuffled inside, closing the door behind him. There was silence as he tried to gain the courage to speak. Sherlock sighed impatiently.

“My name is Samuel Overton. I used to be an officer – in the merchant navy.”

Predictable. Sherlock sighed, impatient. “Get to the interesting parts, and try not to bore me.”

Overton fidgeted, giving a clearing of his throat. “Like I said, I was an officer. But the pay; the conditions – it wasn’t what I – I wanted to get out, find a way to leave. But I couldn’t. Until… _they_ showed up. It was night time. I’d been put on lookout. Had nodded off when I felt this – sword at my throat. I went to call for help, but a hand was put over my mouth. Well, it wasn’t long before I knew what was happening.” He paused. “It was pirates sir. A group of them, on a stealth attack. They took over the ship in a matter of minutes. The captain was killed, and so was the first mate.”

“You offered to work with them,” Sherlock said suddenly. “In exchange for your life.” Overton narrowed his eyes, surprised.

“Y-yes. I did. To my shame. They put me on crew. I worked with them for about a year. Maybe two. It was difficult to keep track. Got my scar because of them. But one day, I…”

Sherlock cracked a smile. He leant forward. This was actually getting quite intriguing now. “You got greedy.”

“We all did; me and the other survivors. We started wondering why we weren’t getting a bigger share. We—” Overton gulped, but shook his head, stirring himself to continue. “We planned a mutiny. But the night we were going to do it – the captain walked in on us planning it. We were punished, put into that longboat you found on the beach.”

“We? I only found you on that beach.”

“We were floating for weeks,” Overton explained. “No food, no water. No way to get to land. Some drowned trying to swim to shore. Some killed themselves. I just… hoped.”

“I see. And you want revenge on them, is that it?”

“Yes. They ruined me.”

Sherlock sighed. “And just when I thought this could be interesting.” He stood and made for the door. “Failed mutineer pirate wants revenge on the men who—”

“I never said they were men sir.”

At this, he came to a halt. He tightened his grip on the door handle. “Pardon?”

Overton ducked his head, tapping his fingers against his knee. “The people who did this to me – they were all women, sir. Women pirates.”

A throaty laugh followed this revelation, and didn’t stop for a moment or two. Sherlock turned to face Overton.

“Women pirates?” He cocked an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe.”

* * *

The first he knew of any home invasion was when he felt a blade against his throat. Without making a sound, he shut his book and raised his head to be faced by a woman with black curled hair and a wicked smile. He bowed his head slightly, the distant sound of terrified screaming providing a backdrop to the situation he now found himself in.

“You must be the captain of the group,” he said smoothly. The woman smiled wryly, raising her sword to touch at his chin.

“Look at those cheekbones,” she purred, taking a step forward. “I could cut myself on those.”

Her choice of words didn’t go lost on him, and he quirked an eyebrow in amusement. “Is this how you greet all your captors?”

“Only the pretty ones. Now, come on. You’re needed,” she said, dropping her sword to her side. He didn’t move, and she rolled her eyes.

“Mr Holmes, just do as you say. I really don’t want to have to kill you.”

He smiled and inclined his head slightly. “I was wrong,” he said after a moment. “You’re not the captain. You wouldn’t have threatened me if you were.”

“Oh, you’re good. You’re better than she said you would be,” she murmured as she reached forward and lightly touched at his face. “It’s just a pity she’s reserved you.” With that, she raised her sword and held it against his neck again.

“Up you get,” she said lightly. This time, he didn’t argue.

“Anything else you’d like me to do?”

“Yes, actually.” He felt the steel move away from his neck and the woman put it back into the sheath at her hip. “Get on the floor. Lower your head.”

Slowly, he knelt down and lowered his head. There was a creak at the door as another figure entered the room. Sadly, from his position, he could only see her feet but by the expensive nature of the boots she wore, he hazarded a guess she was fairly high up in rank.

“Is it him?” the new arrival asked, tone stern.

The woman stood behind him must have nodded, because the new arrival stepped forward, there was a dull thud and everything went black.

* * *

 _Ow._ That was the first word that came to mind. His head throbbed as if he hadn’t spent the night at his house and being invaded by pirates but in a tavern.

The first thing he registered was the feeling of a cold towel being pressed to his forehead. Blearily, he groaned and opened his eyes. Sunlight blasted his eyes, making him blink. Above him, someone sighed sympathetically.

“Don’t worry,” they said. “You’ll get used to it.”

He tried again to open his eyes. Growing used to the sunlight, he scanned his new surroundings. A ship’s cabin, small in size. Few trinkets. A bed, which he laid in. Leaned over him was a girl of no more than 16.

“Where’s Overton?” he asked. The girl smiled, but gave no answer. She daubed his forehead with a cold flannel. The pain in his head faded.

“Cap’n says you’ve got to be looked after,” the girl explained, her voice as light as her touch.

Sherlock’s gaze dropped towards her belt. He froze when he saw the pistol tucked against her hips.

“Every crew member has to be able to protect themselves,” she explained. “Cap’n ordered it.”

“You’re 16.”

“That’s why Cap’n gave me this pistol,” the girl replied. Sherlock quietened. Clearly the captain of the vessel he now found himself on was a considerate woman. Assault of young women was unfortunately common among the lower and higher classes. It was partly why he had spurned society for as long as he had. The rest of the cabin was sparse. Few trinkets decorated its walls. Maps were collected on a table, a half-empty bottle of rum set atop them.

“You won’t find anything about the Cap’n here sir.” The cabin girl sounded proud. “This is the quartermaster’s cabin.”

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. At least his captors were clever.

The girl continued with her work, a gentle hum on the edge of her lips. The cabin door suddenly opened. A female stepped through. She possessed tight dark curls and brown eyes. At first he failed to recognise her.

"Captain says he’s got to be brought to her quarters.” Her stern tone gave him her identity. “He’s all fixed up, is he?"

"There wasn’t much injury," the girl said, standing. The woman raised an eyebrow.

"Really? Can’t have hit him hard enough then." She looked to him. "C’mon, follow me."

Sherlock slowly raised himself up to a sitting position. The sunlight hitting his eyes, he turned his head, squinting briefly as he looked up at the woman.

“Before I do so, might I have the pleasure of knowing my captor’s name?”

The woman watched him for a moment, her eyes flicking over his form. She gave a slight grin. “You really think you’re the bees knees don’t you? My name’s Donovan. And you’re keeping the captain waiting.”

"Well I wouldn’t want to do that," Sherlock drawled.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Donovan said, amusement slipping through her tone. Sherlock got to his feet and moved towards the door. He was stopped in his tracks by the feeling of a blade lightly held against his throat. He turned his head. A woman with short, blonde hair stood before him. She, like Donovan, gave his form a quick glance. Unlike Donovan, she did not smile. She almost looked curious.

"So you’re Sherlock Holmes. My God."

Sherlock smirked. “Not quite, I’m afraid.”

The blonde woman gave a short laugh and drew her sword from his throat. “The captain’s going to love you. That’s for sure.”

With that, she gripped at his arm and steered him out of the cabin.

* * *

He was escorted out onto the main deck. His eyes came to find the sight of women filling the space. Not one person could fail to see the peace in which the members of the crew went about their daily tasks. He felt a pull at his arm and before he could ask where he was to go, he was being led up a short series of steps onto the top deck.

"Captain," the blonde woman said. "Sherlock Holmes for you."

For what seemed the hundredth time in only a matter of minutes, Sherlock found himself feeling rather surprised by what he saw. Stood at the helm, with her hands clasped tightly against the spokes of the wheel, was the captain. Her hair, long and wavy, fell past her shoulders and down her back. Her clothing was made up of trousers, an undershirt and a waist corset. Patterns were interwoven into the dark fabric of her corset. Her coat was navy blue, lined with gold. Two weapons were attached to her belt: a pistol and sword. Both custom made.

Hearing his name, she turned her head. In contrast to the behaviour of her crewman, she did not appraise him nor admire his form. She only briefly scanned him before she turned to the blonde woman.

“Thank you Mary. Take over the helm," she said, stepping away. The roughness with which she took Sherlock’s arm was a vivid counterpoint to her exterior. "Mr Holmes and I have something to discuss.”

* * *

She led him back down the steps and into another cabin, this one larger and far more luxurious than the one in which he had woken up. Mismatched furniture made up the bulk of the room, with opulently decorated chairs from Italy in one corner and lushly sculpted tables and bookcases from Spain in another. Sherlock settled into one of those chairs, half-expecting her to do the same. She perched on the edge of the table, sitting opposite him. She scooped her hair around her shoulder and smiled widely.

"What do you make of it?" She was like a child, waiting for approval from her parents for something she’d made.

"Very little," he said after a moment. He folded his hands over his stomach as he leaned back in the chair. "A crew of female pirates – interesting on paper. Not so much in the execution."

She eyed him. "You’re awfully self-assured for a prisoner."

He rolled his eyes, giving a sigh. “Do you have to use the word prisoner? It’s so dull.”

“What would you rather be called then?” She raised an eyebrow, leaning forward. “Lord Holmes?”

“God, no,” Sherlock said as he took another look around the cabin. She really had done well for herself in the last few years. He looked back at her. “So how about we call me what I am?”

She paled at that. Her features set into a frown. “You told me you didn’t wish to be called that.”

Sherlock grinned and leaned forward. Keeping his eyes on hers, he reached forward. Gently he wrapped his fingers around her wrist. Elevated pulse. He flicked his gaze up to her brown eyes. Dilated pupils. Good.

“You promised you’d be gone for only two years.”

He didn’t know which of them had drawn first, but it didn’t matter. The cool metal of her pistol dug into his chin. He grinned wider, gently pressing his own pistol against her chin.

“Where did you get that?” she asked. Her eyes flicked towards the pistol he held against her cheek.

“Your sentiment is your disadvantage.”

“You stole it from the cabin girl.”

“Of course I did.”

She had changed in her time away. Her features had been hardened by both the ocean and the battles in which she had fought. Such a change from the girl who had left him alone on that damn island. He still hated her for that.

“Did you ever find him?” he asked. His voice was softer (more affectionate) than he wished it to be. “Your brother?”

She pulled away. Cocking back her pistol, she drew it away from him. He followed suit. Her voice, when she spoke, was short. Tight. “Dead.”

“When did you find out?” he asked.

“Two years ago.”

“Yet you’ve been gone for six,” he said, his tone turning cold. Her cheeks flushed red and she looked away, avoiding his gaze for the first time.

“I’m sorry,” she said, the apology stilted and stiff. “I always intended to come back—”

“No you didn’t.”

A ghost of a smile appeared on her lips. “You know the seas better than I do, Mr Holmes.”

He didn’t know why he took her by her waist and pulled her towards him, but he did. Her smile widened. There was so much there, between them. So many cobwebs of thoughts and emotions and (worst of all) sentiment.

She was the one who initiated their contact. He, weakling that he was, drew away from her after less than a moment, and let his hands fall away from her. She, however, was quite obviously not done with him yet.

She touched at his chin with her hand, sliding her palm against his jaw. Her thumb traced the hollow of his cheek. No words were said. With a sharp intake of breath, she pressed herself against him and caught his mouth in a fierce, possessive embrace. It was instinctive for him to respond (after all, it wasn’t as if he was completely finished with her either). His arms wound themselves around her waist, smoothing and palming over the fabric of her coat as he pulled her closer until she was astride his lap.

“Molly,” he murmured against her mouth as they continued to kiss. Their reunion was hurried, clumsy, and in a way, inescapable. “My Molly…”

Her cheeks and chest were flushed as she pulled away from him. She pressed a light kiss to his temple, laughing breathlessly as he nuzzled at the space of her collarbone.

“What shall you call me now?” he murmured. She kissed him again.

“Husband. Always my husband.”


	71. Private Study. (Potterlock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from tumblr user icequeenforlife: Molly brews some potion and grows cat ears (and perhaps some other cat-like traits as a result).

Ever since being admitted into Slughorn’s club for elite students, Molly Hooper had been fixated on being the best Potions student she could be. Whilst it was partly because she liked the subject, it was also a consequence of her inherent and subconscious need to prove to both herself and others that she deserved to be there; that her presence in class mattered.

It was with an amused admiration that Sherlock would often watch her.

Sometimes he’d see her figure move quickly around Slughorn’s classroom as she gathered together her ingredients and began to furiously and diligently prepare them. Sometimes, on returning from his Astronomy classes late at night, he would pass the girls bathroom on the second floor to see her sat, cross-legged, on the floor with her cauldron in front of her as she scanned the pages of her Potions book, muttering to herself under her breath as she worked with her ever faithful (and annoying) feline Toby curled up beside her. It was at those times that he found himself smiling a slight smile and shaking his head before he swiftly moved on.

There was one occasion however, that proved the exception. He was returning not from Astronomy class but a bout of detention with Professor Flitwick, and as such, he was in a much fouler mood than he would’ve usually been.

Muttering and spitting distinctly Muggle curses under his breath, he stormed down the second floor corridor. As he passed the bathroom however, it was out of habit that he slowed and craned his neck.

To his surprise, Molly was nowhere to be seen. Her cauldron was there, as was her Potions book. Toby was present too, but he was nervously pacing up and down the width of one of the cubicle doors, meowing softly at irregular points. It was almost as if he were pleading (if cats could plead, that is).

Sherlock stepped back and into the bathroom, only to finally hear it. A crying, but not the usual sound of crying. It was more akin to a hiccup, interchanged with a small meow—a meow that didn’t come from Toby.

"Molly?" Sherlock said. The hiccup-meow sounds stuttered to a stop.

"Oh," Molly’s voice floated from behind the door, "Sherlock. It’s you. Sorry for making such a mess. I’ll clean it up, I promise."

Sherlock surveyed the mess behind him, and raised an eyebrow. “Molly, were you brewing… Polyjuice Potion?”

"Y-yes."

"And I’m guessing you had a little accident?"

Molly sniffled. “It was Toby. A few of his hairs got mixed in with the other hairs I was using.”

"Ah. I’m sure it’s not _that_ bad.”

"No, it is."

"Oh. Can I see?"

There was no reply. He tried again.

"Molly, although I don’t quite know the time it takes for a cat to transform back into a human, I do know that you can’t stay in there forever."

Molly sighed, the sound followed by another tiny hiccup. “Fine. Please promise not to laugh.”

Sherlock swallowed back a chuckle and nodded solemnly. “Yes, of course. No laughing.”

"You’re going to laugh aren’t you?"

"I promise I won’t. Not much anyhow."

Somehow, that seemed to work and slowly, the cubicle door was pulled open with a creak and Molly stepped through. A bubble of laughter escaped Sherlock’s mouth, but he quickly pulled it back as he stared at the now changed Molly. Much of her was still human, except for the fact that she now had cat ears protruding from her head.

"It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?" Molly sniffed and wiped at her nose with her sleeve. "I keep wanting milk too."

This time, Sherlock could not help but laugh. In fact, he guffawed, his shoulders shaking from the effort. Molly’s choice to glare darkly at him only served to increase his amusement. Any negative thoughts or feelings towards either Professor Flitwick or detention were long disappeared from his mind.

"Your face!" he cried, pointing straight at her as he continued to howl, doubling over with the force of his laughter. Molly blushed beetroot red and whirled around to dive back into the cubicle. Sherlock, recovering from his bout of near-hysteria, quickly followed after her and Molly let out a tiny _yelp_ when she turned to find themselves both tightly squashed together in the small cubicle. She pushed at Sherlock’s chest.

"Go away! You’re just going to laugh at me!"

"No, I’m not." He grabbed at her hands, his expression once again serious. "I’m taking you to Madam Pomfrey."

She didn’t have a chance to protest as he was already, in one swift motion, pulling her from the cubicle with one hand, scooping Toby up off the floor with his other and handing said feline over to Molly before he moved quickly out of the bathroom. Molly sighed, letting out a small lamenting groan as she reluctantly followed on.

"I’m such an idiot," she muttered. "Slughorn’s going to hate me."

"Have you met the man? He’s incapable of hating _anyone._ I doubt he’ll hate you. Anyway, you really shouldn’t worry.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. He smirked. “You look rather fetching with cat ears.”

Molly’s response was to lightly smack the side of his arm. “Sherlock!”

He only grinned. “I’m only teasing you Molly; I find that you look rather fetching all the time.”

Where Sherlock merrily continued on his way, Molly screeched to a halt and stared at him.

"What did you just say?"

Sherlock stopped and turned, letting out an impatient sigh. “I _said_ , you’re always rather - oh. I-I said that out loud.”

Molly nodded. “You did.”

Now it was his turn to blush.


	72. The Benefits of Board Games.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Sherlock and Molly playing Monopoly.

On his regular visits to 221b, John had seen and grown used to a lot of strange sights.

Where once he groaned at seeing a head in the fridge, he now blinked in mild surprise at the sight of any particular body part his friend had decided to experiment on. Where he once greeted the sight of a woman in the flat with a sort of amused confusion, he now greeted Molly Hooper-Holmes with a smile and a nod as she flitted around the flat, glasses in her hair and a cup of tea in her hands.

It was quite a revelation really; just how domestic life at 221b had become. True, it wasn’t entirely domestic and it was still as far from conventional as it could possibly be, but for both Molly Hooper-Holmes and Sherlock Holmes, it was more than enough.

* * *

One Monday morning, John jogged quickly up the steps and stepped through to 221b to find his friend sat atop his chair dressed in his standard of shirt, trousers and robe with his fingers tucked under his chin and his eyes locked onto the mass of papers that adorned the wall opposite him. With a sigh, he settled into his old chair.

"Any open cases then?"

"Unfortunately no," Sherlock muttered. "London’s criminal underworld has clearly – wait."

"A case?"

"Something much more pressing," Sherlock replied as he jumped off his chair and moved to the coffee table, where John—for the first time—noticed the Monopoly board set up there. He watched with furrowed eyebrows as Sherlock moved the silver sports car along a few spaces and landed on Mayfair.

"Molly!" Sherlock said loudly, to which she came running in from the kitchen. When she saw the car on Mayfair, she grinned.

"You owe me rent, Mr Holmes." With that, she leaned forward and kissed him quickly before she dashed back into the kitchen and Sherlock resumed his spot atop of his chair.

"Oh! John,"—Molly poked her head around the kitchen door—"would you like some tea?"

John blinked. “Y-yeah. Sure. And some biscuits if you’ve got them.”

"I’m sure I’ve got some Bourbons hanging around somewhere."

She moved back around the door, and John’s smile slowly widened. Definitely, definitely unconventional. He turned towards his friend.

"I didn’t know that was how you played Monopoly."

When Sherlock gave no reply, he tried again.

"What happens when you pass go?"

Sherlock gave a slight, knowing smile as his gaze flicked towards Molly. “We… vary it.”

“ _Oh_ – okay. And just how long have you been playing?”

"Since Saturday," said Molly, her voice bright and cheerful from the kitchen. Sherlock’s grin widened as he began to look once more at the wall, giving a little sigh.

"Summer is always so slow," he mumbled. "So dull."

"It’s the heat," John said matter-of-factually. "People are too busy enjoying the sun to commit murder."

"Incredibly inconsiderate of them," Sherlock said, just as Molly quickly entered and moved the only other piece on the board—the ship—forward three spaces. Another grin appeared on her lips.

"Aha! Electric Works." She looked to her husband and stepped towards him. "I think I’d like to buy that."

Sherlock only raised an eyebrow as Molly drew a hand through his curls and pulled him towards her, bending her head a little to press a lingering, tender kiss to his mouth. When she pulled away from him, Sherlock had the expression of a cartoon character who had just been hit over the head with a large mallet. John stifled a laugh. He could almost _see_ the stars dance around Sherlock’s head.

Molly however, did not stifle her laugh.

“You’re incredibly silly,” she murmured, kissing at his forehead before she bent down to pick the Electric Works card from the box, only to jerk up when Sherlock lightly patted at her arse. She blushed quickly as Sherlock grinned and turned his attention back to the wall. Her blush increased when she turned to see John staring at her with a raised eyebrow.

"It keeps him distracted," she said with a small shrug and smile. The tell-tale beep of a mobile sounded, and before either John or Molly could fully turn their heads to register the sound, Sherlock had sprang out of his chair and made a grab for his phone, scanning the new message with a growing grin.

"Lestrade – body’s been found in Hyde Park." He tucked his phone into his trouser pocket and threw off his robe, replacing it with his jacket followed by his Belstaff. He cocked a smile at John, who had stood as soon as he heard the very mention of a possible murder. "Coming?"

He didn’t wait for an answer, but instead practically sprinted down the steps, only to reappear moments later to kiss Molly on the forehead. As he left for the second time, she gave a soft sigh.

"Well, it _did_ keep him distracted. Now get going,” she said, pushing John gently out of the door. She giggled. “The game’s afoot!”


	73. Rekindled. (TW: Mentions of Drug Use)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from tumblr user the-cardiganqueen: Molly finds out that Sherlock has rekindled his drug habit.
> 
> Slight AU.

How it happened, she did not know. Why it happened, she did not want to know. Her disgust, her disappointment; her sadness was too great. A thick layer of stubble covered his chin, his skin was dirty, and his skin was sallow.

He barely registered her as she stepped inside. He did not register her still when she slammed the door behind her. In fact, he only gave a groan and rolled away, his body dominating the sofa where he had made his home. The flat itself was filthy; a hollow reflection of what it should’ve been. Instead of experiments, there were needles. Instead of maps, photos and clippings, there was nothing—merely the ripped, peeled wallpaper, once a trademark of him and his mind and his work.

Her movements were quiet as she moved towards him. Still he did not stir. Yet when she knelt beside him, and when she wrapped her small fingers around his shoulder, he slid and fell into her touch as if it were as easy as breathing. Before she could breathe a word, he rolled over and into her, wrapping his arms—strong, even now—around her waist to pull her close to him, burying his face in her neck. Her hands traveled to his curls, and sank into them. Grease and dirt was what met her touch, not the soft curls she had so often dreamed about.

For a long moment, they remained in that way, his arms locked tight around her waist and her pressed close to him, her fingers tangled against and in his curls. They remained there; still among the filth and debris that now made up Baker Street.

"Go if you want," he mumbled finally against her skin.

"I want to," she breathed, her voice light in his ear. Her fingers tightened against his curls. "But you know I can’t."

Her touches were light, and her grip around his wrist was hesitant. He could’ve resisted her if he wished; but he did not. Instead, quiet with his head deeply bowed, he allowed himself to be stood and he further allowed her to lead him slowly, carefully from the living room and down the corridor. She let him open the bathroom door, and she watched, stood silently in the corner as she was, as he switched on the shower and slowly stripped himself of his clothes before he stepped into the bathtub. The water dripped over him, the effect of it lost on him. He did not feel clean, even as the dirt slipped from his skin and over the marks that condemned him. He turned, and found her stood in the bathtub, naked as him but unlike him, she was not ashamed. She stepped once towards him and still with no words coming from her mouth, she bid him to bend his head.

He obeyed, as he always did. His eyes traced over her bare form. He took in the white of her skin, the perfect proportion of her hips to her waist to her breasts. Finally, he looked at her eyes. There were so many things there; so many _bad_ things. Shame, hurt, hatred, loss, disappointment, contrition. She had not one good emotion about her. He preferred it that way.

His hands soon replaced hers, and she continued to watch as he carefully and thoroughly massaged at his scalp. The act was freeing, in a way. He almost felt clean again.

He was the one to switch off the shower, and he was the one to step out. He made to dress, but her hand at his arm stopped him. Without shame, embarrassment or compunction, she took him by the hand and led him out of the bathroom, towards the bedroom.

She picked out a shirt, jacket and trousers.

"The way I like them," she said with a smile usually directed by a mother to her child.

"The way you like them," he murmured as he dressed. He didn’t roll up his sleeves. When he finished, he found her already dressed too, in an all too-bright jumper and all too-dark trousers. She said nothing else to him, but moved out of the bedroom.

He found himself following her. He followed and helped as she, without a word nor a command, cleaned the place free. She cleaned it just as she had cleaned him; needles were swiftly disposed of; clutter was trashed; filth was scrubbed away, and the wallpaper that had once acted as his marker was stripped away without ceremony.

When all was done, and the bare walls of 221b were shining; that was when she spoke. Her smile was kind, as it always was. A glimmer of something—something unattainable, unreadable, unachievable—shone in her eyes as she reached up to touch and cup at his cheek. He sank into her touch once again. His eyelids would have fluttered close, but he stopped himself. To stop himself was to go back.

"This is the last time, Sherlock." Her voice was soft, but the anger was clear. Her hand dropped quickly from his cheek. "I can’t do this anymore."

She dropped her head, worrying at her bottom lip. Her fingers locked and unlocked themselves together. She took a bracing breath. Sherlock watched her with a cool, hollow detachment. He knew this. He knew what was to come. It had happened so many times before.

Eventually, when the silence was too much to bear, she lifted her head. Her eyes were damp.

"I can’t wait for a man who has no intention of coming to me."

With a heavy heart, he closed his eyes. To see her go was a pain he could never bear.

He left it barely 30 seconds before he opened his eyes.

She was gone, but the flat was the same. Where needles had once laid strewn about, they were gone. He did not know where. The suit he now felt cool and right against his skin.

He had to raise a smile.

Even when she was a vision, she still managed to save him.


	74. Plane Confrontations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Pre-relationship. Sherlock and Molly sitting next to each other on a very long flight.

He should’ve brought John. Of course, John was preoccupied with the pregnancy of his wife; therefore, that particular option was rendered impossible.

So he’d had to bring Molly to accompany him. It wasn’t a _bad_ thing, to have Molly Hooper accompanying him. He was rather glad of it, to tell the truth, but there was… The Problem.

It had been with them ever since his brief exile, but it had never been spoken about. She had questions and opinions she wanted to direct at him, and he knew it. He felt it; felt it so much that it was almost painful to even look at her sometimes. So like every self-respecting man would do, he brushed away any thoughts or feelings and merrily—if somewhat uncomfortably—continued with his current situation.

Now though, trapped in a plane with the clock nearing almost midnight and being unable to sleep, all the thoughts he had so carelessly brushed away had come and pushed their way to the surface of his mind, not letting him alone until they had picked away at every nerve not just in his mind but in his body too; until he was nothing more than a tangled mess of ideas.

Molly, enviably able to sleep, stirred and blinked sleepily as she took in his anxious form.

“What’s wrong?” she mumbled.

He shrugged. “A lot of things.”

“To do with the case?”

“Some of them.”

Colour slowly flushed her cheeks. “Are any of these _things_ to do with… me?”

“Most of them.”

“Oh.” She lowered her head. “Sorry.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t be. You didn’t make me think of you.”

“I accepted to come on this case with you.”

“I offered.” His hand twitched slightly against his cheek before he looked at her. “We’re both at fault.”

She held his stare for a long, long moment before her hand slowly wrapped around his. She looked the perfect picture of innocence as she swallowed and smiled hesitantly.

“That day – your exile. Why didn’t you tell me? That you were heading towards your death?”

“After all the effort and risk you’d put into saving my life, I thought it rude.”

At that, she chuckled and raised an eyebrow. “I’m a big girl – I think I could’ve taken it.”

Now it was his turn to smile, and he carefully drew his hand away from hers, if only to play gently with the tips of her fingers as he drew small circles at the centre of her palm with the flat of his thumb. Molly’s smile widened and she gently leaned towards him to rest her head at his shoulder. It was almost automatic for him to rest his cheek against the top of her hair.

It was not the first time, for either of them to be caught in this position together. On the evening he had died, they had indulged in exactly the same kind of contact. There had been reasons for it; though none he could really remember. Emotional exhaustion had perhaps played a part.

“It’s a complicated situation,” he said finally, voice low. “Isn’t it?”

Her replying remark came in the form of a murmur, almost lethargic in its tone. “We’re complicated people.”

She raised her other hand to brush a curl away from her face, but she found herself stopped by his hand reaching up to complete the action for her. Her gaze flitted back up to him, and her smile returned as their fingers slowly and carefully locked together.

Just as it had been automatic for him to rest his cheek against her head, it was irrevocably logical for him to silently bend his hand and take her mouth in a lingering, soft and long overdue kiss.

Yes, he should have bought John.

Yet if he had, he wouldn’t have been half as happy as he was now.


	75. The Proper Instruction. (Mask of Zorro AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by That Scene in "The Mask of Zorro", and encouraged by conchepcion.

He rushed into the stables, slamming the door behind him. For the first time that evening, he paused, catching his breath. He adjusted his mask. It had been a somewhat tumultuous night thus far. The clashing of swords still rang in his ears. He could still see the flushed faces of the captain's guards in front of him as they made their pathetic attempts to try and capture him. He chuckled.

Replacing his sword at his hip, he stepped forward. He immediately stopped. The sight of a slight young woman stood before him. One Molly Hooper, the daughter of the man he had targeted. She wore only her nightgown and a blue silk robe. The long waves of her hair would have softened her features if her gaze was not quite so fierce.

“Good morning sir.”

Her tone was genial, a veil of a threat behind it. A tone emphasised by the rapier sword she held in her right hand. He bowed his head.

“Good morning.”

“Give it back.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“The item you have stolen from my father, I want you to give it back.”

“Who said I stole anything?”

“Twenty guards,” she replied, with a thin smile. Her gaze deepened, her brown eyes dark. He smirked, a reply on his tongue. She raised her sword with a flick of her wrist. She pressed its point lightly at the base of his chin.

When she spoke again, her voice was even.

“Give. It. Back.”

She could hold her own. That was admirable. On any other morning, he might have stayed to fight. He, however, had a corrupt aristocrat to overthrow and a plan to foil. She, an aristocrat's daughter, was, little more than an obstacle. He sighed.

“I apologise that my activities have disturbed your sleep, but I've things to do, so,” he swatted her sword away from his throat, pushing past her, “if you don’t mind.”

The length of her sword touched against his neck.

“I’ve already apologised, Miss Hooper,” he said. He looked to her. She stood facing his side, giving a raise of her eyebrow. “What more could you _possibly_ want?”

“Whatever it was that you stole from my father.” She tilted her head. “Do I have to repeat myself?”

Her dark eyes remained on him. Stubborn, he thought. 

He raised his gloved hand and ran his fingers along the length of her sword, slowly circling her. He flicked at the tip of the sword, pushing it downwards. The corners of her mouth tilted with an amused smile.

“Regrettably, I don't have the time to teach you.”

She gave a mirthless laugh. She stepped back, settled with ease into an en garde position.

“I've been taught since I was four years old. I’m sure I can keep up.”

For a lady of high society, she was braver than most. Not stubborn. That judgement had been in error. She was self-assured. Proud of her own skills. He made a low noise at the back of his throat.

He was never one to disappoint a lady.

Unsheathing his sword, he stepped forward and settled into his own stance. She advanced forward with a basic parry. He responded with an even more basic block. She added complexity to her next attack, carrying markers of her instructor.

"Italy?" he said. He shook his head as he blocked her third attack. "No, French. Parisian. Heavily inspired by - Marozzo?" 

She grunted in reply, turning on the ball of her foot and crouching, her sword still aimed at his body. She scanned him. Rapidly, she was up, hurrying forward with a sharp thrust towards his chest. Improvisation; not learned from the theory books. It was only a deftly done disengagement that had her stumbling to a stop. Her breath heavy, she shot a venomous glare in his direction.

“You're not playing fairly, _sir_ ,” she bit out.

“Neither are you,” he said with a shrug. “Or did your Parisian encourage rash attacks?”

“I saw you fight those guards," she snapped. "You'll fight me, or you won't fight at all.”

He blinked.

“Am I that obvious?” he said, giving a shrug. "I'd rather not fight at all."

The air between them was still as he circled her again. His gaze flicked over her form in a brief appraisal. She preferred to attack and defend from the right side, as her Parisian had taught her (poorly - but her natural skill made up for her tutor's own lack of knowledge). Her left side was her weakest. He moved forward, striking at her left and grinned. With a yelp, she jumped to the right, dodging the attack. 

So that was one theory proved right. She leaped forward, engaging him in another series of attacks and counter-attacks (all from the right side, he noted amused as he parried another one of her lunges towards him) until she finally thrust her sword forward at the point of his shoulder, her tip of the sword ripping through the fabric but failing to draw blood.

He saw her triumphant grin. He glanced at the torn shirt. His attention returned to her, his shirt's rip between finger and thumb.

“Little rude, don’t you think?”

She gave no reply. She only smirked wider and straightened up. Leaning against a column, he watched. Dark eyes fixed on him, she brusquely removed her robe (it'd slowed her during their previous bouts), twisted her hair around her shoulder and turned to face him, her rapier sword back in her hand.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Ready."

The two fell back into the fight. An exchange of parry-ripostes, the both of them wearing wide grins as their eyes raked over each other’s forms, seeing and noting weaknesses and strengths and blind spots. Just as she could read him, he could read her.

Another loud tear of a fabric. Her gaze flicked downwards. The creamy skin of her thigh was exposed through the rip. He was not surprised when she shrugged.

“Eye for an eye.”

Taking advantage of her brief pause, he caught her sword and completed a full circle with his sword, pulling her up and towards him. Her attempt to repress her blush did not go unnoticed.

“You know the term for this?”

“Corps-a-corps,” she recited. “Illegal in both foil and sabre.”

“This isn’t Paris, Miss Hooper. Or would you prefer that I don't fight at all?”

Her glare returned. He jumped back and cut at the shoulder of her nightgown.

“Eye for an eye,” he echoed. He gave a short bow. 

With a frustrated growl, she leaped forward to thrust at his right side. It was all too easy for him to block the attack with a left sided defence and push her straight back to where she had started.

“Don’t attack emotionally. Leads to all kinds of mistakes,” he said silkily. She began to attack him again, her anger more than making up for any technical mistakes. With a spit of French, that, she caught his sword—in a repeat of his own earlier movement—and performed a full circle. His sword flew out of his hand, across the stables. It landed in amongst the loose hay.

“You’re a fast learner.”

As she attacked, he ran back towards the stable wall, grabbing a snatch of rope from a hook. With a flick of his wrist, he flipped the thick rope towards her. The rope smacked against her wrist. Another French curse, the sword was out of her hand. He darted forward, grabbing the rapier's guard.

For a brief moment, she stared at him in wonder. But only briefly. Head turning, her gaze found his abandoned sword. She sprinted towards it, him following. She just managed to wrap her fingers at the hilt of his sword when he pressed his foot to the flat of the blade.

“Don’t.”

She swallowed and lifted her head up. With a flourish, he touched at her chin with the tip of her sword. Her hand slowly drew away from the hilt. She allowed herself to be guided up onto her feet.

“Do you trust me?” he asked after a moment, the irony of the question not lost on him. She scoffed.

“As far I could throw you.”

“Hm. Good. Don’t move.”

She frowned as he lifted the sword from her chin and stepped back. He scanned her. A small smile on his lips appeared on his lips. With his movements light and as precise and as necessary as any doctor’s, he flicked and slashed with the tip of the blade against the fabric of her nightgown. Finally, he dropped the sword back to his side. With a tilt of his head, he grinned.

* * *

Quite what he had accomplished, Molly wasn’t too sure.

That was when her nightgown slipped delicately from her shoulders. The scraps of it pooled at her feet.

Topless, with the length of her hair being all to protect her modesty, she gasped. She turned away, scrabbling for something, anything, to cover her. Grasping the tip of a hat, she clutched it tight, covering her chest, panting heavily. Hesitant, she looked up. She swallowed, hard. He, this strange man she had fought so virulently, stood before her now. Close enough that she could feel his warm breath in the growing flush in her chest.

“I’d say I’ve won. Wouldn’t you?”

She slowly shook her head. The heat in her body rose, blooming in her cheeks. He may have defeated her, but she’d be damned if she was going to accept it.

“Hm," he said in reply. "Pity.”

He took a step closer. His ice blue eyes reflected the colour of the early morning light. There it was again. The amused smirk.

Only now, she was able to register just how fast her heart beat at the sight of it.

“I’ll scream,” she said. A half-hearted attempt at a warning. The smirk widened into a smile.

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

Warmth pooled in her belly. His fingers slid into her hair, his palm cupping her nape. She felt herself smile. Her blush faded. He bent his head. His lips were inches from her own. Hope, desire, wanting filled her. 

His mouth was on hers. Claiming her. He didn't disappoint. She sighed into his mouth, allowing the sensual pleasures of his lips against hers and his hand caressing softly at the back of her head, his fingers in her curls, to overwhelm her. All she could see, all she could feel, was him. 

He drew himself away from her. He dropped one small kiss at the corner of her mouth.

A dazed, content smile formed on her lips as she watched him pick up his sword. He put it back in its place at his hip before he turned on her again.

“My hat, Miss Hooper,” he said with a smile.

"Oh." She bit her bottom lip, looking down. "Um..."

He scooped up her discarded dressing gown with one gloved hand. "Use this. Much more practical."

"Thank you," she murmured, taking the garment from him. She might've been more responsive, but her mind, her memories, still swam with the intensity of their kiss. He stepped forward, still smiling. It was not an arrogant smile. Nor amused. It was sincere. 

She fell into his touch. Her eyelids flickered closed. She felt the warmth of his palm slip under the edge of her jaw, his thumb drawing against her cheek.

"Until next time, Miss Hooper?"

"Where is he?!" The voice of the captain echoed down the halls. "Where's the bastard who calls himself 'Zorro'?" 

Molly whipped her head around, searching for the source. No sight of the captain as yet, but his footsteps grew louder with every moment. The man in front of her sighed, flipping his hat onto his head, as if it were nothing but an inconvenience that the ruthless head of her father's army was out for his blood. Saying nothing, only kissing briefly at her cheek, he turned and sprinted from the stables.

"Miss Hooper?"

She gave out a shriek at the question of her name, covering herself with the dressing gown. She looked, wide-eyed, at Captain Moriarty.

"Captain! I-"

A few seconds behind him, her father stormed inside, sword at the ready. Said sword fell to the floor with a clatter. Her father’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of his daughter out of breath, her ruined nightgown, her dressing gown held at her chest.

“Molly…? What are you doing?”

“Zorro!” she said, a little too eagerly to sound angry. She cleared her throat. “I mean, Zorro. He – he was here. I fought him, and he – he left.”

Her father's eyes narrowed. “He… left?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Did you recognise him?”

Molly shook her head.

“No. But he was young and – well – he was,” she paused, searching for the right word. “Powerful.”

“Powerful?” her father echoed with disbelief in his voice.

“Yes. Very – _powerful._ ”


	76. Vow Recital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Married!Sherlolly. Sherlock hates it when Molly isn't wearing her ring because she gets advances from guys who don't know she's taken.

She was flirting, and it annoyed him. The signs were all there; wide smiles, forced laughter, fluttering of hands against chest. Every single one of them he picked up on, and every single one of them irritated him. His features arranged into a dark frown, he slowly twirled his ring around his finger. Her own shone in the soft, bland light of the living room.

Sherlock quickly decided that he hated parties. Damn Lestrade, and damn his need for a birthday.

"She’s just being friendly," John said from beside him, and when Sherlock shot him a puzzled look, his eyebrows shot upwards.

"You’ve been glowering in her direction for five minutes now. Anyway, it’s not her fault," John said as he gulped back at his drink. "You were the one who started it."

"I did not _start_ anything.”

"Sherlock, you discredited her research."

"It was full of holes, and illogically put together."

"That doesn’t matter. She’s your wife and you knew how hard she’d been working on that paper."

"What, so a husband can’t give his wife a little advice?"

John shot him a withering look, to which Sherlock sighed heavily.

“ _Fine,_ " he muttered and he quickly drained the rest of his drink before he squared his shoulders and walked towards his tipsy wife and the leering Dimmock stood before her.

Her giggle trailed away as he tapped her on the shoulder.

"Sherlock."

"Mm-hm." He nodded once to her almost empty glass. "Don’t you think you’ve had enough?"

She answered his question by lifting her glass and taking a loud, obnoxious slurp from it, all while she kept her eyes locked onto his. Sherlock swallowed a smile as he briefly scanned her. Harsh glare, but relaxed body language, subconsciously leaning towards him, dilated pupils. So she was playing _that_ game.

It was only fair that he played along.

"Molly," he said again, his tone almost playful. "Could I borrow you, just for a moment?"

She tilted her head at him, eyes narrowed.

"If you must."

He took a hold of her hand and pulled her easily away from Dimmock’s company and out of the living room. Shutting the door behind them, he led her down the quiet corridor and steered her into the even quieter bathroom, a place made up of neutral tones and dull fixtures. The only remarkable feature in the place was the large marble worktop that made up the sink and stretched across the left wall of the bathroom.

Molly, apparently a little more sober than before, finally pulled herself free of his grip and he leaned against the worktop, watching as she—with an almighty adorable glare—shut the bathroom door and moved to stand opposite him, her arms crossed over her chest.

"What do you want?" she asked crisply. "Thought of another piece of my research to ridicule?"

"John said I should apologise for that."

"I agree."

"You asked for feedback, Molly," Sherlock reminded her. "If you wanted glowing praise, you should’ve talked to John. He’s marvelous at that kind of thing."

She hugged herself tighter and she deepened her glare, if only to try and hide the hint of a smile at the edges of her mouth. He stood up a little straighter and carefully positioned his hands at the base of her waist.

"And I don’t think my bout of honesty really called for that outrageous bout of flirting with Dimmock back there."

"Who said I was flirting?" Molly said, eyeing him evenly.

"His fixation on your breasts and your failure to correct him," Sherlock murmured in response, his gaze tracing over her form again.

The dress she had chosen for this evening wasn’t as daring as some of her other clothing but was still as garish as some of her other clothing choices; a pastel-coloured summer evening dress, a pattern of birds arranged itself artistically over the material. Not for the first time, Sherlock silently reminded himself of just how glad he was for the summer’s recent break of heat.

He gently pulled her towards him, allowing his hands to roam up her back, his fingers tracing gently against her spine. He heard the small catch of breath as his wife—his Molly—suppressed a small moan of approval. Without hesitation, he gave a smirk and pressed a small kiss to her collarbone before he dropped to his knees.

"Recite your vows," he said, voice thick.

"Wh - what?"

He deftly spread her legs before he glanced up at her, eyebrow raised.

"Recite your vows," he repeated, his voice laconic and his tone even. She allowed herself a smile and a breath of a laugh followed it as she glanced towards the door.

His fingers brushed against each of her ankles, tracing slowly at the shape. Taking a breath, Molly began to speak.

"I, Molly Hooper, take you, Sherlock Holmes, to be my husband—"

She paused as Sherlock’s hands began to move up from her ankles towards her lower legs, his palms warm against her skin. Her grin widened and she bent forward a little, pressing her hands into the worktop behind him.

"To have and to hold - from this day forward; for better, for worse—"

Sherlock nodded and hummed approvingly. His hands were now on the base of her thighs. She continued.

"For richer, for poorer - in sickness and in health - to love—"

Her voice trailed off into barely audible mutterings. Sherlock glanced up at her once more.

"What was that?"

She gritted her teeth. “I said - hurry up, you bloody git.”

"I don’t remember that being part of the wedding service," Sherlock said silkily, grinning as he moved his hands up and massaged at her thighs, slipping his hands against her inner thighs. Content again, Molly resumed her recital.

"And to cherish. Till death us do part, according to God’s holy law."

"I honestly don’t know why you insisted on getting married in a church," Sherlock admitted. "You don’t believe in God anyway."

"It’s tradition," Molly retorted. "Anyway, even if I did, I’d take a guess that he wouldn’t bless _this._ ”

"No," Sherlock said with a slight amused hum, "I don’t suppose he would." His gaze flicked up to meets hers again. "You still haven’t finished by the way."

"And you still haven’t even started," Molly said, impatience in her voice. Sherlock laughed.

"Always so impatient."

Molly sighed and brushed her hair out of her eyes before she began to speak again.

"In the presence of God I make this vow."

"Thank you," Sherlock said quietly, and Molly chuckled again, shaking her head a little. Only Sherlock Holmes would denounce and pronounce himself as God in the same sentence. Her laugh caught in her throat when she felt his fingers at the band of her now soaked knickers and gave way to a relieved sigh as he deftly pulled them from her. He kissed once at her inner thigh and her fingers sank into his curls as he began to deftly lick and explore her with an expertise that was both alternately familiar and exhilarating in equal measure.

She moaned as he drew her closer, deepening his exploration and a stream of curses spilled from her mouth as she began to slowly buck against him. Three years of marriage, and he still managed to be bloody well miraculous with that fantastic tongue of his.

The thought that she was still annoyed with him floated through her brain, but as she felt her muscles began to tense with her oncoming orgasm, she brushed the thought away and replaced it with the feeling of utmost euphoria as her orgasm built to a crescendo.

* * *

Molly quickly brushed herself down as Sherlock washed and dried at his face and glanced at his wife through the mirror and smiled. Catching his eye, she returned the smile and moved towards his side in order to rest her head on his shoulder.

"You know that getting me off in Lestrade’s bathroom doesn’t absolve you of anything, right?"

"Of course," he said with a smile. He looked to her. "I’ll cook dinner."

"Better. You need to practice anyway." She moved away from him and moved towards the door as he began to fold the towel. Sherlock chuckled softly.

"Really? Are my parents visiting?"

Molly shrugged, opening the door. “No. But considering I’m soon going to be eating for two, you’re going to have to do better than just pasta and bolognese.”

The door swung shut behind her, and it took Sherlock approximately 15 seconds to catch onto her meaning. He practically sprinted out of the bathroom in her wake.

"Molly! _Molly!_ ”


	77. Married Life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by "Up" and the infamous 'Married Life' montage sequence. Not a prompt fill.
> 
> Note: The timeline of the fic takes place over the film's timeline, i.e. 1930s up to modern day.

**Eight.**

It’s a truck that does it. A screech of wheels, and a whine, followed by two weeks at the vet and all too soon, it’s all over. The eight year old Sherlock feels guilty. He wonders what would’ve happened if he hadn’t let the lead off. Mycroft tells him it was an act of nature. Mummy tells him it was an accident. Father tells him he should remember the good times.

He doesn’t know what it was. All he knows is that he was there, and he didn’t save him. He didn’t save Redbeard.

Sherlock doesn’t like being sad. He tries to follow what Father told him to do; he tries to remember the good times. He tries to remember, and he does remember. Doing so only makes him sadder.

He ends up crying in the middle of the night.

He doesn’t like feeling that way.

So he stops himself. He stops feeling sad; stops thinking of Redbeard. He thinks of other things; reads other things. He learns instead of feels.

He learns about exploration. He learns about Charles Magnussen. Danish, he’s an explorer and he’s brave. He’s gone to South America, the news announcer says. He’s gone to Paradise Falls, and he’s due to make his return any day now.

He returns with a discovery, the news announcer says, a little more brightly than usual. It’s not often someone makes a discovery like the one Magnussen has made; Sherlock knows that. He watches the news with a wide-eyed interest he hasn’t shown since Redbeard. In the dark of the cinema, Mycroft snorts and claims there are better things to do with his time, but Sherlock ignores him. His eyes focus on the newsreel in front of him. His wide-eyed interest dims into shock and his tiny hands ball into fists as the newsreel changes. Magnussen presents a skeleton. It’s of a bird-like creature, larger than anything any human has ever seen. Scientists step forward, and there are claims of foul play. Magnussen is called a fraud.

Mycroft has to drag a kicking and screaming Sherlock from the cinema. He dumps him outside, and scolds him. Yet Sherlock hears none of it. His mind is focused on his outrage. He asks his brother why people would question Magnussen’s intelligence. Mycroft claims that everyone questions everything, and takes his hand to take him home. When they get there, Sherlock makes himself a dirigible of his own. It’s smaller than Magnussen’s; bluer too. Tongue stuck out at the corner of his mouth, it is with absolute concentration and minute precision that Sherlock writes the words “Spirit of Adventure” on the sides of his balloon. When he presents it to Mummy, she terms him a very clever boy.

He takes his dirigible everywhere with him. He barely talks to anyone and he barely spends time with the other children at his school, but he cannot – will not – go anywhere without his dirigible. He spends his days with it, running down streets and over hills, seeking adventure where others may not find it.

His ultimate adventure though, comes with an abandoned house. It’s a few streets away from his house, and it’s hidden by a clump of trees, but that only makes it more special because it’s _his_. Through the hallways and up the stairs he runs, exploring and learning every inch of the house he’s termed his own.

One day though, something is wrong. As usual, he eats his breakfast, gets dressed, puts on his helmet and his goggles and runs down the few streets it takes to get to _his_ house, but he stops when he sees it. The door’s open. He always closes it. Through the broken glass of the windows, he hears a sound that is unfamiliar.

It’s a girl. That’s the first thing he knows. He steps through the front door, keeping a tight hold on his dirigible. The voice floats through the hallway and he steps into what should be the living room to find not quite what he expects: it’s a girl, certainly, and she wears pink, but she isn’t frilly. She’s funny, in a way, with her hair loose and a helmet and goggles on her head and over her eyes. She stands at the window, an old steering wheel in her hands. Where she got it from, he doesn’t know.

She doesn’t notice him at first; she’s too busy navigating her way through the storm (even though it isn’t raining) to pay attention to him. He finds himself annoyed by that. He speaks up, and asks her what she’s doing. She drops the wheel with a clatter and spins around, flushing furiously with embarrassment.

She apologises; she says she didn’t know anyone lived here. He laughs and tells her no-one does – but it is his house. She frowns, puzzled by his words, but accepts them with a shrug anyway. She asks if she’s really annoyed him. He points out she’s still in his house. She shuffles forward and holds out her closed fist. She murmurs that she doesn’t want to upset anyone. Her palm opens; inside is a small badge, made of a pin and a bottle top. Sherlock takes it.

She tells him her name: it’s Molly.

He gives her his.

They both agree they have nice names.

A week later, when they’re in the park and eating ice cream as they read through Molly’s Adventure Book, Molly asks if they’re friends.

Sherlock says that they are.

Molly asks if he’ll go to Paradise Falls with her.

Sherlock promises it with all his heart.

* * *

**Twelve.**

They don’t go to the same schools, but they find time for each other anyway. There’s a café that’s equal distance from their schools, which helps. They go there every lunch time to eat and talk about school. Sherlock claims all his teachers are stupid. Molly tells him they can’t all be stupid before she takes a bite of her sandwich; Sherlock relents. His Science teacher isn’t too awful, he says with a shrug.

They move on to other subjects. They end up discussing Charles Magnussen. They discuss the fact that he hasn’t been back from South America yet. Sherlock feels guilty that he’s almost forgotten about him, but sweeps the momentary feeling away. Molly laughs when they remember their first meeting together. Sun passes over her face as she laughs, and Sherlock decides she looks rather nice that way.

The sun passes, and her smile fades. She asks what he’s thinking about.

He claims to be thinking about the upcoming test.

Molly doesn’t believe him, but she says nothing. It’s not the right time.

* * *

 

**Sixteen.**

Molly starts to become pretty. She was obviously always pretty, but now other boys are beginning to notice her. They’re beginning to sidle up to her and ask to go out with them. Sherlock doesn’t know if he likes it or not. The thought of his Molly smiling at someone else makes him uncomfortable. He immediately admonishes himself for the feeling.

That doesn’t stop him from being annoyed when she accepts Tom’s invitation to that week’s dance. He congratulates her anyway; they both know he doesn’t mean it, but neither say anything. It’s not the right time. (He doesn’t go to the dance either.)

To make up for the dance, he invites her over to spend Christmas at his parent’s. She accepts, but as soon as they step through the door, he immediately regrets his decision. Mycroft makes snide remarks; crows about the fact his brother’s got a girlfriend. Mummy tells him not to be rude, but the hope in her eyes is undeniable. Molly blushes and stammers her way through Christmas dinner and present giving. When it all gets too much, she politely and quietly makes her excuses and departs through the back door. Throwing a glare at his brother (who acts irritatingly innocent), he follows her outside.

She isn’t crying, but she’s upset. He knows why, but he can’t say it.

It’s been the right time for her for so long, but he’s taken a little while longer.

She’s always been better at the emotional stuff.

Now he’s at the point she reached years ago, but he finds himself unable to speak.

The only thing he can do is gently hold her hand.

She smiles, and it’s a genuine smile. He mumbles an apology for his brother, and her smile widens. She says nothing, but she squeezes his hand that little bit tighter.

For now, it’s enough.

* * *

**Twenty.**

Their first argument comes on her birthday. They’ve had spats before, and playful moments where they’ve pretended to be angry at each other, but this is real. It’s snarling, and spitting, and personal. She’s learned he’s going to university and he hasn’t bothered to tell her. Tears are in her eyes and she claims that he doesn’t care about her if he’s willing to move away from London, his home, to get away from her.

He snarls at her, claiming that just because she’s not clever enough to get into university doesn’t mean she needs to take it out on him. Her fists ball up, and he knows he’s said the wrong thing but he’s too angry to speak or apologise or make it up to her. She reminds of why she’s not going to university yet, why she has to take a year out; she reminds him of her father’s illness; of her duty to put her family first, not herself. She yells that she can’t be selfish like him.

He sees that she is right; he is being selfish, but not for the reasons she has thrown so violently at him. He’s going because he cares _too_ much. He’s in love with her; he’s been in love with her ever since he encountered her in that old house and found out that she loved exploration just as much as he did. Yet he can’t say it.

So he leaves.

It’s a year later, when he’s come back for Christmas, that they face each other again. He doesn’t want to (he’s too afraid), but his mother forces him to speak to her. It’s awkward, their reunion; five minutes of painful small talk and hollow silences.

His apology finally spills out in a garbled mess of words, but she somehow understands.

Finally, as the sun lights up her features and as she gives a small smile, he asks if he can kiss her. She agrees.

It’s their favourite Christmas memory.

* * *

**Twenty Four.**

It’s at age twenty four that he proposes to her. He’s now a graduate chemist, and therefore unemployable for the time being. Her father’s illness finally took him two years ago, and she’s still helping her mother and sister pick up the pieces. He’s made sure to be there as much as he possibly can. He knows what it’s like to lose a loved one, and although he’s dealt with it by blocking it out, he knows that won’t help his Molly. She’s open, so much more than he is, and she needs to grieve. She needs to cry, scream and rage. She does all of that, but she remains remarkably selfless. Her grief only comes in spurts, when the only person to witness it is him. Seeing it makes him more protective of her than ever before.

That’s why he’s determined to make this birthday the best one she could possibly have. He’s already ruined one birthday; he won’t make the same mistake twice. Instead, he works. For weeks, he works. It’s almost a project for him, gathering her friends together, secretly hiring the venue and giving the engagement ring to his mother for safekeeping. The project takes him two weeks in total.

He’s almost as giddy as his eight year old self as he leads her into the venue and switches on the lights. A cry of “Surprise!” comes from their friends as he pulls the blindfold from her eyes and she grins. The night goes perfectly, but when his father discreetly drops the ring box into his palm, he feels his giddiness fade and evolve into a tight knot of nerves. He turns to Molly, and tells her he has something important to ask. She claims she has something important to say as well. She suggests they say it at the same time. It’s not quite the way he wants to propose, but he agrees.

1, 2, 3.

_Will you marry me?_

Her proposal is spontaneous; his is planned.

They both laugh.

They both accept.

The wedding itself is small, but more than enough for the two of them.

Sherlock’s next surprise however, is not one that she is able to predict; but it is one that causes her even more reason to smile than before.

He’s bought their house. Their house, the house where they met and played in as children.

It is there that they build their life.

* * *

**Twenty Eight.**

When they have finished building and painting their house from a playground for childhood imagination to a home, it’s widely agreed among the neighborhood that it’s the prettiest house on the street. Sherlock ignores them, but Molly agrees with a smile. He gets a job as a detective, working with the police. (He decides to call himself a consulting detective—the police don’t consult private detectives.) She gets a job at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, as a pathologist. Unconventional career choices for their time, but both jobs dear to their hearts.

Yet that promise they made to each other as children isn’t—nor can it be—forgotten. Every spare bit of money they have is dropped into that large jar on the mantelpiece, Molly’s familiar scribble spelling out the words “Paradise Falls”.

On their days off, they either spend time with their friends John and Mary or with each other. Sometimes, when the weather is good, they go for a picnic at the top of a hill at the local park. Molly takes up the hobby of cloud-spotting. He claims it’s a silly thing to pick for a pastime, but she only scrunches her nose at him and giggles before she snuggles closer to him and points out the different shapes and images that she can see. After a while, he begins to see them too. (He still says it’s a silly thing to do though.)

On their eighth outing, with Molly’s head resting on his lap and his hand in her curls as she sleeps, Sherlock gazes up at the sky. There are not many clouds there in the sky today, but there are still some shapes to be found. He finds one, and taps her gently on the shoulder to wake her. Her eyelids flutter open, and she frowns at him in a silent protest at the interruption to her nap. If he had to compare her to an animal, he’d compare her to a cat. He laughs and asks her to look up at the sky. She huffs but does so anyway.

He asks what she sees.

She tells him.

A baby.

He’s glad; because that’s what he sees too.

* * *

**Thirty Four.**

It, unfortunately, proves to be a cruel trick of fate.

Sherlock can see her through the window of the kitchen as he, with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, slowly washes at the dishes she’s left out. He isn’t angry at her; not for the dishes, not for the silence, and certainly not for this. He sighs heavily and finally drops the plates. He dries his hands in the methodical way that he always does and neatly folds the dishcloth to hang it back on the oven door before he moves outside. He picks up his coat from the hook as he goes.

Molly sits on the grass, legs crossed. Her eyes are closed, her hair is down and her arms are crossed over her stomach. He approaches her. In the autumn air, she’s cold. He bends over her and covers her shoulders with his coat. It’s either the warmth or the weight of it, but something causes her to open her eyes. Her gaze traces over him as he crouches down beside her. He wraps his arm around her shoulder, and there’s a beat, a moment, of silence before she falls into him, resting her head against her chest and clutching at his neck with her small hand, her fingers finding their way into his curls and he presses a kiss against her hair. This is what she needs; what he needs; what they both need.

For a long time, they stay there.

They haven’t lost everything, he says eventually as he traces small circles gently against her back with his fingers. She says nothing, but he knows that she’s listening.

He only uses two words as a reminder, but it helps. The hint of a smile appears.

That night, the Paradise Falls jar returns to its rightful place on the mantelpiece.

* * *

**Thirty Eight.**

They set up a routine.

They wake. If they feel like it, they make love. If they don’t, they share a kiss. They dress in their robes and make their way downstairs. They both cook breakfast; Molly has a boiled egg and toast. Sherlock has bacon with his toast. They discuss something interesting one of them has found in the paper or one of the many academic journals they’ve subscribed to over the years.

After breakfast, they go back upstairs. They dress. Molly chooses both her own and his clothes. If it’s her day off, she always chooses to wear his purple shirt (it’s her favourite – always has been.) He’s grown to trust her judgement; he knows she won’t ever make him wear the colourful, bright things she wears.

After that, he kisses her goodbye as she goes to work and greets John warmly as he steps inside to start the day of trawling through current or potential cases.

She always rings before she comes back home. He has time to tidy his mess away, but he almost never does it. She used to scold him for it, but now she rolls her eyes and knows he’ll do it when he does it. (Somehow, this attitude works better than scolding him. His mess is cleared away within less than half an hour.)

They cook dinner together, and they talk about their days as they do so. Molly’s the better cook between them, but Sherlock’s learning. Soon he’ll be able to make roast potatoes without burning them. It’s the little victories after all.

When dinner is all done and the dishes are sparkling clean and neatly stashed away in the cupboards, they head upstairs and as in the morning, they make love if they feel like it—they usually do. Whether they do or not however, they always end up sleeping close, cocooned against each other’s warmth. Sherlock often mumbles in his sleep; Molly sometimes hears. She always smiles.

The years pass. Sherlock now believes he can count his life in shirts.

By the time they’re both 72 and they are the only ones left from their previously young lives, Sherlock happens to glance in the mirror. He sees how grey and wrinkled they’ve become. Life is on their features, at the edges of their eyes and in their smiles.

She sees him, and she gently stands beside him to squeeze at his hand. She asks what’s wrong.

He tells her everything is fine.

The jar, its carefully written sign now covered with a thin layer of dust, sits on the bookshelves. For the moment it is forgotten, but neither of them mind.

They have each other.

* * *

**Seventy Six.**

He discovers the jar on the bookshelf during one of his rare occasions of dusting. He doesn’t recognise it at first, but when he does, he feels his heart sink with the realisation. The promise they had made to each other, the promise that had cemented their friendship, had gone unfulfilled. He had fulfilled every other promise he had made her, except for the one that truly mattered.

He cannot live with that idea. She is sat in her armchair, and so can’t see him discreetly pick up the jar and take it into the kitchen. Her hearing’s going and she’s absorbed in her book, so she can’t hear him slowly, with a grunt of effort, tip the contents of the jar onto the table before he gathers them into a bag. He tells her he needs to pop out for a minute, and she cheerfully bids him goodbye.

He’s almost like a naughty schoolboy, he notes with a grin as he walks down the street towards the bank. His grin widens as he steps into the bank and that widened grin changes into a contented chuckle when he comes out a few minutes later, wedges of cash in his hand. He does not turn for home as he usually does but instead turns for the travel agent, a small family practice he has always passed by but has never frequented.

He doesn’t present the tickets to her straight away though. This is akin to a marriage proposal, he decides, and therefore, it is only right that he makes this as special an occasion as their engagement was, 48 years ago.

He buys a large picnic basket, a fresh blanket and all of their favourite foods. (His cholesterol dictates he shouldn’t technically eat chocolate, but he can’t resist buying just the smallest of portions for both himself and Molly.) When he gets home, he arranges the food in the basket and folds the blanket over the top and takes the tickets from their hiding place in his guide for beekeeping (he’s been meaning to talk to her about that) and tucks them among the neatly arranged food.

He presents the basket to her with a playful flourish. She, lost in thought as she gazed out of the window, gives a delighted cry of surprise and he helps her up to his feet and helps her into her coat. She wraps her scarf—old and frayed at the edges now but still well loved—around her neck and with her eyes bright with excitement, she wraps her arms around his and they move out of the door.

His long, wrinkled fingers reach underneath the blanket and he brushes against the two hidden tickets. He smiles.

That same smile fades as he, fuelled by his excitement, runs ahead of Molly and up their old hill. Breathless, his smile widens as he turns, a crowing playful brag ready on his lips, but that disappears when he sees his wife. She’s still at the bottom of the hill. She lifts her head to smile at him, but it doesn’t quite take. He steps down towards her, but she shakes her head. She continues, ever the determined woman.

Her determination is her undoing. With one last grunt, she falls forward and onto the ground.

Sherlock is by her side in a flash.

He remains by her side until they come to the hospital, where he is guided by a nurse to a waiting room as she, his Molly, is attended to by doctors with tired features and falsely reassuring smiles.

The waiting room is cold, blank and makes him nervous. Sitting still unnerves him. He needs to move.

So he does. He stands and leaves the waiting room, shutting the door behind him.

First, he goes home. He looks for and picks up her book. The book she had shown him as children. The book that detailed all of her adventures.

He gets a bus back to the hospital, but he’s still too early for visiting hours. He wanders, and finds himself in the gift shop.

The gift shop sells balloons. Blue ones. (He ignores the ones that have messages on them.)

They sell permanent marker pens too.

He buys one of each.

It takes him a little longer to blow up the balloon than before, and his handwriting is not as neat as his boyhood handwriting, but he gets the balloon to a reasonable enough size to be considered a dirigible and his handwriting is intelligible. (Always the little victories.)

By that time, visiting hours have come around.

He keeps a tight hold on his balloon and her Adventure Book as he heads towards the ward where Molly is being held. He washes his hands with the soap and steps through the corridors of the ward.

He finds her in a private room, asleep. He kisses her on the forehead to wake her, and her eyelids slowly open. She smiles at the balloon. They’ve given her drugs, that’s obvious.

He’s glad. He doesn’t like the idea of her being in pain.

Every movement of his careful, he lays her book across her lap. She smiles, and reaches up to touch at his cheek. It strikes him as a gesture of comfort, which it is. His own hand lays itself against hers, and he kisses at her palm.

It is a week later that she slips away.

He’s with her when it happens.

He’s with her when the funeral pallbearers bring her body into the church. Family surrounds him. They share their condolences, but he hears none of them. His gaze remains fixed on the coffin in front of him.

It remains that way, long after the family members have filed solemnly out of the church.

Sherlock finally lets go of the balloon. It drifts, but he doesn’t watch it go.

Tears roll slowly, silently from his eyes.

His young self didn’t know a lot.

Now, he knows everything.

He knows that he loves Molly with all his heart.

He knows that he doesn’t like being sad.

That he doesn’t like her being gone.


	78. A Sweet Distraction. (Khan/Molly Hooper)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for startraveller776, who wanted fic where Khan was just Khan (instead of being an alias for Sherlock) and Molly was just Molly (i.e. born and living in only the Star Trek universe, and not present in both the Sherlock and Star Trek universes).

She was not supposed to be important. She was part of Starfleet, obedient to their lies and obedient to Marcus. At worst, she was the enemy; at best, she was a distraction.

 _And what a sweet distraction_ , he thought mildly as he traced his forefinger from the back of her knees and up, up to the small of her back, his breath warm against her skin. She shivered against his touch, and in the small, cramped, clean-lined accommodation that she had been assigned, he laughed a low laugh of amusement. Her hair fell against the fabric of her pillow as she scrunched up closer to her sheets, away from him.

"Come," he said silkily. "Why so shy now?"

"You’re the enemy," she whispered as she rolled onto her back. He smiled as he traced the shape of her ear and her jaw, drawing his thumb slowly over her bottom lip. Her gaze finally settled on his.

"You say _such_ lovely things,” he said softly, using his other hand to stroke at the loose strands of her hair.

"How can you laugh?" she said, her hand coming to rest at his bicep as her gaze, wide-eyed and sad, bored into his. "How can you?"

"I don’t," he said in reply, dropping a kiss at the side of her temple as he shifted so he was hovering closely over her, one hand at the side of her head and the other still stroking slowly and methodically through her hair.

"You make jokes. You…"

"Don’t pretend to be so high and mighty, Miss Hooper," he said, his voice little more than a low rumble. "I did not invite myself into your bed. _You_ invited _me._ ”

"I did not know you then." The hatred in her eyes was clear to see. "I knew a man named John Harrison. Not the man you are now."

He smiled and dipped his head to lean close to her ear. “In your bed, there’s little difference.”

He could almost hear her heartbeat quicken as he drew himself away from her and fixed his gaze back onto hers once more. For a long moment, she considered him. Her pupils widened, and her frown deepened. Her hands slowly traced up his arms to clasp lightly at his shoulders, her nails digging just enough to cause a brief hiss and a warning flash of a glare in his eyes. She grinned triumphantly.

His fingers sunk tightly at her curls and he caught her following moan in a bruising, intense embrace. She arched against him in response and locked her arms around his neck to pull him closer towards him. Lost in each other’s taste, he deepened their kiss as his hands began to roam her body, cupping and caressing, finding and remembering the spots that would elicit that special, sinful moan from her. She bit at his bottom lip, but drew no blood. He responded by lifting his head, breaking the kiss. Now, it was his turn to grin with triumph.

"Am I still your enemy, Molly?"

She sat up underneath him, cupping at his shoulders again. Her voice was breathless when she spoke.

"No difference," she said and this time, it was her who reached up to kiss him.


	79. Keeping an Eye on Things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this 'lovely' anon I received on Tumblr: "How can you not ship johnlock? Its the main ship! Cant you see all the sexual tension between sherlocak and john? And they are constantly eyefucking. And sherlock and molly dont even show affection for eachother? They only kissed in andersons reichenbach theory! And sherlock only told molly she mattered so that he could survive the fall, if she really mattered to him then a gun would have been pointed at her too. I dont blame your for shipping sherlolly, you wouldnt know any better."

Molly woke to the sound of tapping. Angry, quick tapping.

Blinking herself awake from sleep, she pulled the sheets closer to her chest and raised her head to see that her consulting detective was sat up in bed, laptop balanced precariously on his propped up knees. He frowned deeply as his fingers moved across the keyboard in a blur.

"Sherlock," she asked with a soft sigh, propping herself with an elbow as she looked at him. "What are you doing?"

"Busy," he growled, but the word was swiftly followed by a familiar chime of of an email notification. Molly gave a groan and fell back onto the bed.

"Not the chat rooms again." She ran her hands over her face in a mild display of despair. “Please not the chat rooms.”

"Not the chat rooms," he said curtly, briefly glancing at her. "Tumblr."

"That’s even worse."

"Ever since our relationship became public, it’s necessary for me to keep tabs on what the public opinion is."

"It really isn’t." Sherlock didn’t seem to hear her, as he merrily continued to type.

"The majority of people seem to be rather pleased with our relationship," he muttered under his breath. "Others seem to be reacting with some… displeasure. They seem to be convinced John should be my romantic partner, despite the fact he is currently married with children."

Molly laughed in amusement, causing Sherlock to glare quizzically at her. She continued to giggle as she spoke. “Sorry, the way you said that — made it sound as if that was the only thing stopping you.”

"Mary can be terrifying when she needs to be," Sherlock said with a smirk, and Molly’s giggles increased. She quickly reached up to kiss at his cheek before she burrowed down back into the sheets, giving a sigh.

"This is the problem. The internet is so big and there’s so many people on there — you can’t please everyone."

"When I have ever wanted to please anyone?"

Molly’s only reply to this was to arch an eyebrow, and Sherlock gave a shrug before he finally shut his laptop and put it to one side.

"Anyway," he said his voice low as he leaned towards her, and he began to slowly caress softly at her neck and her shoulders. "There’s only one person I’m _truly_ interested in pleasing.”

She smiled and let out another, lighter laugh of excitement, he kissed discreetly at the edge of her collarbone before he slowly made his way down her body, pressing open mouthed kisses against her, his hands roaming over her nightshirt, eliciting tiny, anticipating moans from her with his ministrations.

"And how do you plan to do that?" she asked eventually, breathless in her tone.

Now it was his turn to arch an eyebrow. He slowly drew his hand over her stomach and underneath her nightshirt as his grin turned thrillingly wicked.

"I’ve picked up a few tricks."


	80. Detention. (Potterlock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from user benedict-cumbercrack: Potterlock where Sherlock and Molly get detention.

With more force than was necessary, Sherlock dumped another stack of pots into the sink, an action that Molly received with a heavy sigh and a even larger roll of her eyes.

“ _You’re_ the one who caused the explosion.”

"I wouldn’t have caused the explosion if you hadn’t given me the wrong ingredients."

"I didn’t _give_ you anything,” Molly said as she arched an eyebrow. “You just grabbed the first thing you could reach.”

"You should’ve stopped me."

"You barely do anything Slughorn tells you to do — what chance do I have? Now c’mon, let me do those," she said, stepping forward and lightly elbowing Sherlock out of the way. "I actually know how to wash up, unlike you."

"Slughorn told us to do an equal amount," Sherlock reminded her but Molly scoffed slightly in derision as she turned her head to look at him.

"You’re really going to try that?"

She rolled her eyes and continued to wash up, putting things on the side to drain. It took Sherlock only a few moments to realise that she wanted him to dry them. So he picked up a nearby dishcloth (put there by the house elves, he suspected) and began in his task. For a few, long moments, there was silence between the two students.

"I still say it was your fault," Sherlock mumbled as he dried a third smallish cauldron. Molly made no reply. Apparently she preferred to use the ‘cold shoulder’ tactic rather than the ‘nag until he listens to me’ technique. Sherlock didn’t know which one he preferred more; though he would’ve admitted that the latter was much more fun.

He tried again.

"Of course, if you had given me the right ingredients—”

Molly dropped the cauldron she was cleaning and whipped around, her stare fierce and ever so slightly terrifying if you weren’t used to it. Sherlock was used to it though, and merely blinked and directed a small smirk at her.

"I gave you the bloody right ingredients," Molly said slowly, teeth gritted. Sherlock’s smile widened.

"Then how come we’re in here, when we should be in our dormitories?"

"Because you added too much damn wolfsbane and didn’t listen to me!" Molly said hotly, but Sherlock’s grin only grew again. That seemed to set her off, as she began to rant and rave, her words accompanied by the growing sound of Sherlock’s amused laughter.

"This is the thing – you never listen, you never talk to me, you never let me lead – you’re always running around, saying you’re the boss and you know best – _this isn’t funny Sherlock!_ ”

"Oh, really? I was sure it was, I mean you are extremely—"

Cold water splashed against his face, cutting him off. He blinked quickly from the shock and glanced down at Molly, to see her hands freshly wet with water and her features lit up with a triumphant grin. His own smile lowered into a glower and with slow and deliberate movements, he dropped the dishcloth back onto the side and reached into the water. Unfortunately for him, he was too slow for Molly’s liking and he was met with another large splash of water by her, and both the front of his robes and his face became splattered with water.

An annoyed growl rumbled through him as he immediately plunged his hands into the water and drew them out again. Molly—already having cottoned onto his plan—squeaked and stumbled away from him, but she was A) too slow and B) too small to make any effective getaway. Reaching out with a laugh, he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her close to slather his other, equally wet hand fully against her face. She squealed and laughed underneath his touch, only quietening when he drew his hand away from her face and bent his head to whisper quietly into her ear, both his hands now at her waist.

"Do you surrender?"

Molly’s reply came with another splash of lukewarm water to his face and a hurried giggle of “No!” over her shoulder as she wriggled free from him.

Sherlock’s smile returned and his gaze locked onto Molly’s as he rolled up his sleeves. Detention had never been so much fun.

* * *

It was thirty minutes later that Sherlock and Molly—both of them as soaked as the other—heard a loud, genial tutting noise as Slughorn stepped into the classroom.

"Children, children!" he called brightly, and both Sherlock and Molly stuttered to a halt, turning their heads to stare innocently at their Potions master. On taking in their water-soaked forms and the still dirty classroom, Slughorn gave out an amused laugh.

"Ah, well clearly you’re not getting anything done tonight – but don’t worry. I’ll clear everything up." From his robes he retrieved his wand and he held it high in the air, muttering an incantation under his breath.

Within a few minutes, the classroom was clear and tidy and Sherlock had made a mental memo to himself to try and wheedle that exact spell out of Slughorn during the next class. Slughorn beamed at them.

"Now, it’s past your bedtime – you two little lovebirds should be in your dorms!"

Molly turned a bright red. “Oh, no, he’s not – we’re not—”

She did not finish her sentence, for Sherlock had already grasped her by her arm and had begun to lead her from the classroom.

"Just let him think it," he murmured in her ear. "Don’t waste your time explaining."

Molly nodded, but she couldn’t shake the feeling—or maybe it was the hope—that perhaps there was another reason for Sherlock’s insistence on lying to Professor Slughorn.

—

Sherlock escorted her all the way back to the Hufflepuff common room, even though it was vastly out of the way of his own house dormitory, but as he often did this after one of their many classes—or detentions—together, Molly found herself not questioning it nor his motives for doing it.

He stepped back and watched as she rhythmically tapped against the wood of the barrel door, but just as the door swung open and she made to crawl through, she felt Sherlock’s hand at her wrist gently pull her back. Her heart lifted as she turned to look at him, but quickly sank again when she saw that he had no look of adoration or love on his face but instead that all-too familiar look of concentration he always wore around her.

"Yes, Sherlock?" she asked softly, but Sherlock only swallowed thickly, saying nothing.

"Oh for Heaven’s sake man!" a nearby knight, nobly knelt before a beautiful princess called out, glaring at Sherlock from his painting. "Just take the girl into your arms and kiss her!"

"We all know you’ve been meaning to," the beautiful princess said lightly, with a delicate smile.

Sherlock’s jaw tightened and his cheeks flushed red as the other paintings around them murmured and nodded in agreement. (One dour looking intellectual even remarked that it had severely interrupted his studies.)

Molly grinned, her eyes fixed only on Sherlock.

"Are they telling the truth?" she whispered, so only she and him could hear. (That was the problem with magical paintings—they were always terrible eavesdroppers, and even worse gossips.)

"Unfortunately – I mean, not unfortunately, but unfortunate for me – well, not really – but – yes," Sherlock said with a heavy, irritated sigh. "Yes, they’re telling the truth."

Molly couldn’t help but giggle as she reached up on tiptoes and cupped at his cheek.

"I’m glad." Deciding not to let him speak another word, she leaned in and kissed him. Sherlock responded instinctively, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist to lift her easily up from the floor. Molly laughed as she wrapped her arms around his neck and deepened the kiss.

When they did finally pull apart, a round of applause came from the paintings around them, with a loud “Bravo!” coming from the knight. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but did not look at any of them. Instead, he continued to gaze at Molly, raising his hand to brush gently at her hair with the tips of his fingers.

"I take it you’ll be coming with me to Slughorn’s Christmas party?"

Molly giggled again; more happily than she ever had done, and she kissed quickly at the corner of his mouth.

"I’d be glad to."

With that, she turned away and climbed through the entrance to her dormitory.


	81. Uncle Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Sherlock showing the newest member of the Hooper-Holmes family to his brother, Mycroft.

There were many reasons why Sherlock had insisted on his brother meeting his newborn daughter. One, he was endlessly proud of his pathologist for completing such a mammoth biological effort (the effort being made obvious by the torrent of swear words that had tripped so easily from her tongue during the process), and Two: he merely wanted to see his brother, so cold and severe all his life, interact with an actual, real life baby.

At first, Mycroft acted in a way that Sherlock had easily predicted. He strolled up the stairs and into 221b, his umbrella in hand and a familiar sneer as his expression. Molly, sat on the sofa, greeted him with a friendly smile and asked if he wished for a cup of tea.

"No, I don’t think so," Mycroft said with a slight sniff. He glanced at Sherlock. "So where’s the child?"

Molly rolled her eyes but said nothing, unlike Sherlock who chuckled and rose from his chair.

"Honestly Mycroft, she’s your niece. Try to sound a little less formal."

Mycroft smiled thinly as Sherlock passed him, but nevertheless followed on as Sherlock headed quickly into his and Molly’s bedroom to present to his brother a crib, in which slept his 3 week old daughter.

Poppy’s eyes widened as Sherlock carefully stepped towards her and her grin widened, her arms automatically stretching out to receive her father as he bent down and scooped her into his arms, gently holding her as he turned to face his brother.

For a moment, Mycroft greeted the young Poppy with suspicion, his gaze scanning both father and daughter. Sherlock’s grin widened and he had to choke back a laugh. That same grin of his however, soon fell when Mycroft shook his head and rolled his eyes.

"What?" Sherlock asked quickly, his brows furrowed. "What is it?"

"Please don’t tell me that’s actually the way you hold her. I knew you were unwise, little brother, but I didn’t know you were that unwise."

Sighing, Mycroft stepped forward and easily took Poppy from Sherlock’s arms, cradling her in one arm before he cupped the back of her tiny head with his other hand. Poppy gurgled happily, and Mycroft managed another small smile, genuine this time.

"Didn’t know you could do that," Sherlock muttered, trying—and failing—not to sound petulant. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him.

"You were once a baby, brother."

Sherlock directed a dry smile at him.

"I suppose I was. Can I have my daughter back now?"

Mycroft nodded and deftly put Poppy back into the arms of her father where he not-so-reluctantly copied his brother’s technique. Poppy, tired from all the attention heaped on her in so little an amount of time, quickly drifted off to sleep in his arms.

"She’s wonderful, Sherlock," Mycroft said after a moment, his voice quiet. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Heaven forbid the British Government be seen to be emotional at all.

What Mycroft said next however, caused him to tear his gaze away from his daughter and stare straight at his brother.

"I’m sure she’ll do you very proud," were the words Mycroft spoke. His smile told Sherlock he was being quite genuine. He made to thank his brother—for the first time in his life—but apparently Mycroft had already spent enough time being emotional, for he merely turned on his heel and departed the bedroom and the flat, throwing a casual goodbye to Molly over his shoulder as he went.

Molly entered the bedroom a few moments later, drying her hands with a dishcloth. On seeing her consulting detective stood there with their daughter in his arms, she grinned. She nodded briefly to the way Mycroft had departed.

"He liked her then?"

"I’d say…" Sherlock tilted his head, directing a smile at his pathologist. "I’d say he loved her, actually."

It was true; Mycroft did love his niece, and he went on to prove that by providing every toy a baby could possibly want over the next few weeks, all of them free of charge.

As a result, it was clear to anyone on the planet that despite their many, many differences, the Holmes brothers were now united in at one aspect of their lives: the love they had for Poppy Ilsa Hooper-Holmes.


	82. The 'Flirtatious' Intern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Molly's new intern at work keeps flirting with her. Sherlock gets jealous.

Peter Dinsford was not one to be termed “Casanova”. In fact, he was a rather shy young man and as such, he found it near impossible to talk to either women or men. Indeed, apart from his mother and his siblings, he inevitably turned into a stammering, blushing mess and he invariably ended up insulting rather than flattering the object of his attentions.

So when he walked into St. Bart’s and found that his superior was a woman—and a rather pretty one at that—his heart sank. He had hoped for an easy first day, and now he was faced with a day of awkward silences and stammered apologies. The thought almost made him want to turn and race out of the office he had found himself in.

Pity that his plan to do so was prevented by the fact that the woman in question noticed him almost as soon as the door had closed.

"Hello," she said brightly, standing up. "My name’s Dr Molly Hooper; I’m the specialist registrar here."

Peter nodded dumbly and slowly shook her outstretched hand as he readjusted the strap of his rucksack, glancing down at the floor.

“‘s nice to meet you, Miss.”

"You can call me Molly," she offered, apparently having picked up on his nervous demeanour. Peter nodded again, but said nothing.

"I’m mostly going to be doing paperwork today, so you’ll be in the lab with Felix – he’s perfectly nice, but he can be a bit, well, um – he shouts. You don’t have to worry though," she added quickly as she saw Peter’s face go pale, "he hardly ever shouts at the interns – well, the female ones anyway – anyway, if you need me, don’t hesitate to visit me at my office, okay?"

Peter cleared his throat before he spoke, in some vague attempt to gain some courage. All that came out however was a short stutter.

Molly let out a sudden, bright giggle. “There’s no need to be so nervous! Everyone’s really, really friendly here. I’m sure you’ll do brilliantly.”

Peter breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thanks. It – it was nice to meet you Dr Hooper – Molly. I look forward to working – working with you.”

"Oh, thank you," Molly said with a reassuring smile. "Working here can be pretty stressful though, but if you ever want some coffee or someone to chat to, I’m here."

Peter grinned. So this was clearly going to be easier than he thought.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, Peter settled into his internship at St. Bart’s Hospital. As Molly had predicted, it had been stressful and Felix had not been averse to a few temper tantrums, but as she had promised, she was always there if he needed someone to talk to or to share a coffee with. It was quite strange; unlike his other encounters with the female gender, he’d quickly become at ease with Molly’s presence, hadn’t yet insulted her and he had even come to consider her a friend.

If there was anything strange about his time at St. Bart’s so far, it was the man who (although not a doctor nor a member of staff) seemed to practically live in either the lab or the morgue. Every time Peter was there, he was there too, working closely with Molly. Now, Peter would’ve been more than able to cope with that if the man wasn’t so handsome. Obviously he was the sort of handsome that was way out of Peter’s league, but that didn’t stop Peter from finding himself gazing at the man for extended periods of time and wondering just what it would be like to kiss at the man’s collarbone.

At first, Peter hadn’t spoken to the man (after seeing the way Felix had interacted with the man, he hadn’t dared); the second time, he had tried to at least be friendly with the man, for if he couldn’t flirt, he could at least direct a cordial, if shy, “hello” to him. The man had simply ignored him, and continued to examine the sample underneath his microscope.

“What are you working on?” Peter asked, deciding to stick with the line of small talk. The man still didn’t look at him.

“Homicide,” he said bluntly, and Peter had to force himself not to roll his eyes in frustration. Not only was he impossibly good-looking, his voice was like pure velvet mixed with the richest chocolate. To save himself from any possible humiliation or any more awkwardness, Peter decided to step away and continue with his assigned work.

Molly had entered soon after.

"Oh, Sherlock, there you are," she said brightly, blinking at the man. She moved to stand beside him. "Lestrade was wondering where you’d got to."

"Lestrade wonders a lot of things," the man muttered. Molly rolled her eyes.

"I’ll tell him you said hello. Peter,” she said, turning to face him, “it’s cheeky of me to ask, but could you…?"

"Oh, do you want some coffee?" Peter asked quickly, more than thankful for a reprieve from the distraction that was the man. He didn’t even listen for Molly’s “thank you” before he had practically dived from the lab.

It was only a moment after he departed that Molly stood, grabbed a smug Sherlock by the arm and steered him into the supply cupboard where he immediately dropped to his knees.

* * *

“He fancies you,” Molly said after a moment, letting her head loll back onto the walls of the supply cupboard. Sherlock drew his mouth away from her to raise a questioning eyebrow. Through the haze of her arousal, she chuckled. His eyes narrowed as he gently stroked at the warm skin of her inner thighs.

“Funny, I would’ve said he fancied you.”

"Of course you would. But no, he definitely fancies you."

"What makes you say that?” he asked softly.

“The dreamy looks for one thing – the painful shyness for another,” Molly said.

“Are you jealous? I can’t help being a popular man, Molly.”

Molly forced back another laugh, but couldn’t help a grin. Her hand sank into his curls, and trailed downwards to cup and caress at his chin.

“Sherlock Holmes,” she murmured, “you are too arrogant for your own good.”

He didn’t reply; his mouth was after all, occupied with other tasks.

* * *

When Peter arrived back at the lab a little while later, with two coffee cups in hand, neither Molly nor the man were anywhere to be seen.

"Molly?" he said tentatively, his voice quiet against the silence of the lab. Still no sight of her.

There was however, a sound; and it came from the supply cupboard. It was a soft, low… _climatic_ sort of a sound.

Peter’s cheeks flushed as he quickly caught on to the situation before him, and without ceremony, he dumped the two coffees on the table before he scurried back out of the lab, locking the door firmly behind him. At least now he knew why the man constantly visited St. Bart’s.


	83. Dirty Talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Molly trying to explain dirty talk to Sherlock.

"Well, it’s just something that couples do, you know – to spice up their sex life."

"How could talking ‘spice up’ anything? You and I are talking now."

Molly sighed and tried to suppress the blush that threatened to appear on her cheeks. Why had she even brought up this subject? How had it even started? Reading out that article over breakfast might’ve been a trigger. Knowing her luck, it probably was. She tugged at the sleeves of her lab coat and silently thanked Mike for giving her the night shift, whilst silently cursing Sherlock for being a decidedly nocturnal creature.

"I guess it maximises the pleasure for them," Molly mumbled after a moment and she quietly resumed attending to the pile of paperwork in front of her.

"Hm. And what would someone say? If they were participating in this?"

This time, Molly could not stop herself from blushing. She looked to Sherlock, but he only raised an eyebrow, a smirk at the edges of his lips.

"It’s all quite simple, really – uh, I guess someone might remark on the size of – oh God."

Sherlock tilted his head at her a little, his smirk widening. “Was that a demonstration or a protestation?”

Molly spluttered a laugh, her hands flying to her mouth in an attempt to muffle the sound. Sherlock joined in with her mirth with a chuckle and he stood from his stool to move over to her. Molly’s eyes widened as he, with one hand, drew her hands away from his face and slipped his other hand into her lab coat and underneath her flower-patterned blouse to rest it on her hip and draw small circles against her increasingly warm skin with his thumb. His eyes brightened and his smile grew as he turned, Molly turning with him until she could feel her back pressed against the lab table.

"I think I understand what you’re saying, Molly," he murmured, lifting his gaze to connect with hers. "You want me to tell you how much I want to fuck you. Is that what you want?"

Molly bit a little at her lip, but smiled all the same. Somehow, when Sherlock Holmes said the word “fuck”, it was all the more obscene. She couldn’t help but love that fact about him.

"I wouldn’t be averse to it."

Sherlock grinned, the expression mouth-wateringly indecent, and Molly felt herself give out a little yelp of surprise, followed by a low laugh as she felt Sherlock’s hands grip around her arse, lift her up and onto the laboratory table. Moving his hands back to her hips, he pulled her closer to cup at the base of her neck.

"What else would you like me to say, Molly?" he asked as his eyes languidly traced over her form, not failing to pick up on her flushed cheeks and chest, partially hidden by her blouse.

"Would you like me to tell you how difficult it is for me to watch you work, knowing what it is like to have you mewling and moaning underneath me?"

Molly gave a small nod, her own smile growing. With his fingertips, Sherlock pulled at her collar to expose her collarbone and with another hidden smirk on his lips, he bent down to press a kiss to both her collarbone and the very top of her breast. A deep-throated moan of anticipation slipped from Molly, and she touched lightly at Sherlock’s chin to bring his mouth to hers and engage him in a lingering, deep kiss.

"Tell me everything," she breathed as she played with the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, slowly popping open one after the other.

"I’ve fantasised about this," Sherlock said quietly, his voice low. "About having you here, on this table, in this lab – about marking you as mine."

Molly gave another soft laugh and kissed him quickly. “Always the possessive one.”

Sherlock gave a minute shrug and kissed her again as he began to lower her back onto the table. His hands traced up against her shirt, popping open each button of her blouse as he slowly traced his mouth against her skin. Molly smiled.

It seemed her luck was actually rather beneficial after all.


	84. The Value of Sentiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Sherlock solves a crime in his mind palace with Molly's help, and when he solves it, she gives him a kiss. Also for mollyandherjumper/EloiseAtThePlaza, who wanted a Sherlolly AU of the "seduce me" scene from The Tudors.

Despite the progress he had made in terms of love and sentiment and relationships, Sherlock would be the first to admit that he still did not quite understand them. Crimes of passion were easy to understand—hatred was far more logical than love—but crimes of genuine, heartfelt love? Those he did not understand.

It was such a case that he was now faced with. A wife had robbed her dying husband of his fortune, and it looked to be an open-and-shut case when Lestrade first told him of it. The twist—and therefore the most appealing aspect of it—had come when aforementioned dying husband had professed himself to be the thief, despite there being overwhelming evidence that pointed towards his wife.

"A man who takes the rap for his wife on his deathbed? Bit soap opera," John remarked from his armchair, newspaper folded on his lap. Mycroft, sat as ever in the judge’s chair, rolled his eyes.

"Honestly, I’m surprised you accepted this case Sherlock. There are bigger dragons to slay. I wonder if you’re getting soft in your old age."

"So _you_ say,” Sherlock bit out and he turned his head towards the woman stood in front of him, casually dressed in spite of her wealth but confident in both her stance and her body language.

"You come from a wealthy family, yes?"

"Got all our money from business," the woman said proudly as she adjusted her headscarf. She twirled slightly at her wedding finger.

Sherlock quickly shook his head. “No, that’s irrelevant.”

"It isn’t," Mycroft said softly, almost lightly, only to receive a glare from Sherlock. He raised his eyebrows in response. Sherlock turned back to the woman, sighing heavily as he did so.

"Fine. I suppose _someone_ could call it relevant. You were married to your husband for 45 years. 3 children.”

"Four actually," the woman corrected him, but she avoided his gaze when she spoke again. "We don’t talk about the fourth."

"Sounds familiar," Mycroft muttered under his breath.

"Mycroft, shut up."

Behind him, a door slammed, indicating a new arrival. Before Sherlock could turn to see who it was however, her voice had already echoed around the room.

"So – everything going okay?"

Sherlock froze and swore under his breath. Perfect. Just what he _didn’t_ need—a distraction.

* * *

Back in 221b, Mary jogged up the stairs and stepped inside to find Sherlock outstretched on the sofa, fingers tucked underneath his chin and a frown of concentration on his face. She tilted her head at her husband, who was sat in his old armchair, cup of tea in hand as he lazily scanned the newspaper.

"Mind palace?" she asked him, and John nodded.

"For about half an hour now. It doesn’t look like he’ll be back out any time soon." He gulped back the rest of his tea and stood. "Pub?"

"Sounds good. Harriet’s with Martha, so we’ve got some time."

John grinned and took Mary by the hand to lead her back down the stairs, leaving Sherlock in their wake.

* * *

The woman, John, and Mycroft had all disappeared on her arrival. He both hated and liked that. Liked it because it gave him some privacy; hated it for the same reason. He watched her closely as she—clad in a soft, pastel blue gown—made her way down the steps towards the pit where he stood.

"You’re not supposed to be here," he told her icily in an attempt to hide the pleasure that had begun to grow on seeing her. A reflection of his thoughts, she only smiled.

"Something’s got you distracted," she murmured, narrowing her eyes as she studied him.

"Yes. You."

"Not just me," she said with a small laugh. "You’re wondering why a man would claim himself a thief to save his wife."

"That part’s obvious. Love."

"But it’s not enough," Molly said gently, and she touched at his arm. "Love is a motivator, but it’s not a motive. Why would such an old, wealthy clearly happy couple try and cover up such a massive case of fraud?"

Sherlock’s head darted up with the realisation. Molly’s smile widened.

"Their son. The fourth. He’s in trouble somehow; drugs, perhaps?"

"Perhaps. Or maybe it’s something else. There is, after all, an awful lot of sentiment involved in this case. I suggest you find him and ask him," Molly said and she reached up to press a kiss to his cheek.

* * *

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open to find John sat in the armchair and Mary curled up in his lap. Heaving a sigh, Sherlock shot up and picked up his suit jacket, throwing it on.

"John, if you’re not too busy doling out affection to your wife, we have a case to solve," he said over his shoulder before he rushed down the stairs. John rolled his eyes and kissed Mary tenderly as she made to disentangle herself from his lap.

"I’ll be back late," he murmured as he stood to kiss her again.

"Understood. Now go and catch a criminal," Mary urged with a laugh as her husband grinned briefly at her before he practically sprinted from the flat.

* * *

"I sought out the fourth son as you suggested, but despite his choice to marry a Christian girl, he wasn’t as involved as I initially believed him to be. His fiancé, however, displayed several odd behaviours. It turned out she was being blackmailed by an ex-lover. Fearful of what his father would say or do on finding out, she sought out her fiancé’s mother and appealed to her motherly nature. The father of course, soon found out anyway—they’d stolen too much money in too little a time period to not be noticeable—and agreed to help cover up the fraud, if only to avoid scandal in his company. But when the police got involved and his wife was implicated, sentiment got a hold of him and he claimed himself to be the thief."

Sherlock breathed slightly from his recounting of the case and settled back into his chair to let the warmth of the fire wrap itself around him. The 221b of his mind was neater and less cluttered than the 221b of real life, but it retained the tone and scent of his home, and that was usually enough to calm him. Molly, curled up against the end of the sofa, smiled.

"Is that when you thought of me?"

He felt he should’ve been surprised by the bluntness of her question, but he was not. He had, after all, put the words into her mouth. Looking at her, he gave a curt nod.

“I often associate you with sentiment.”

“I know. But why? You associate John with bravery, and loyalty. You associate Mary with secrecy. You associate The Woman with sex. Why am I your avatar for sentiment? Why am I here?”

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, not willing to admit what either of them wished him to. He supposed that was the main flaw of having a mind palace; every aspect of a person’s personality was heightened to a greater degree. Of course, he couldn’t blame anyone else but himself for that. It was an easier way of understanding people.

Finally, he spoke, opening his eyes to face her.

“I associate you with sentiment because of my feelings for you.”

The Molly in front of him grinned and she stood. His eyes traced slowly over her form as she stepped forward to stand in front of him, the orange light of the fireplace flickering over her body.

“You hide me away,” she murmured. “Why do you hide me away?”

“Emotions are complex; sentiment is a disadvantage.”

“Now you’re using your brother’s words,” Molly said with a soft chuckle and she reached forward to cup at his cheek. “Use your own. Tell me why.”

 _Tell yourself why,_ he thought as he gently wrapped his fingers around her wrist. He swallowed.

“Scared.” The word came out in a whisper. “I’m scared.”

Slowly, she knelt in front of him, her eyes wide with reproach. “You shouldn’t be.”

“I am. Because I, you, everyone… they all know that I don’t deserve the love you give me. I’m obnoxious, I’m an arsehole, I’m horrible to those who are kind to me, and I seek out dangerous criminals and lethal situations as an alternative to getting high. That isn’t the sort of man you deserve. You deserve… you deserve someone like Tom. Safety; security. Everything I can’t give you.”

“I had that, and I gave it up,” Molly said, her tone matter-of-fact and firm. “What does that tell you?”

A twitch of a smile appeared at the corner of his lips. “That you don’t want it.”

Molly gave a nod, but Sherlock’s growing smile soon faded away as a wave of dark realisation hit him.

“I don’t know how.”

“How what?”

“Love, emotions. Sentiment. I can recognise it, but I can’t do it.”

At his words, Molly gave a small nod of consideration and Sherlock dropped her wrist from his grip as she slowly rose to her feet again and stepped closer to him. Pressing one hand against his shoulder, she leaned forward until her lips were inches from his. Seeing him lean forward a little, she smiled.

“What does John do?”

“Writes awful poetry,” Sherlock muttered and Molly rolled her eyes, but let out another laugh all the same, drawing her fingers through his curls.

“No. Not what does he write – what does John Watson _do_?”

Sherlock thought for a moment, his gaze stuck on hers. Her eyes were dark in colour but still welcoming and warm in the light. Intention, she was talking intention…

His lips parted slightly as a second bout of realisation, lighter this time, overcame him.

“He seduces them.”

With those words, a weight had been lifted from him. He hadn’t felt this good in weeks.

“Clever boy,” she murmured softly and she leaned closer to whisper lowly into his ear, voicing the words he did not have the courage to say.

“I want you to do precisely that,” she said, “Use your mind; use your words. Seduce me, Sherlock Holmes.”

The following kiss she pressed to his mouth was tender, lingering but still not enough. It was an ideal; a wish. As his eyes fluttered closed and he pulled her closer, he found that a vision, however accurate, would never be as good as the reality. He needed the real thing.

When he opened his eyes again, he found himself back in the three-dimensional, cluttered world of Baker Street. Armed with the knowledge and the courage he now had, he did not hesitate. Standing from his chair, he advanced down the stairs, his mobile in hand.

_Where are you? SH_

_St. Bart’s, double shift. Why? MH_

_Stay there. SH_

Sherlock smiled as he flagged down a taxi and stepped inside. He wondered if he’d ever tell Molly that she was the one to lead him to her; that she had given him the courage to act on what he had repressed for so long. He soon decided that whether he did or not, it was irrelevant.

For reality, in the end, was so much more important than an illusion.


	85. Old Married Couple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: John, Lestrade, etc. get fed up with Molly and Sherlock's bickering about things and end up frustratingly saying, "You sound like an old married couple, you know that?!" and Sherlock replies, "Well, we are."

"Molly, I need the autopsy report on Mrs. Andrickson, quickly as possible—”

Her face thunderous, Molly thrust the file into Sherlock’s hands and stormed from the morgue. John watched her leave, and turned to his friend, who had only begun to idly flick through the folder, unaffected by the display of Molly’s anger.

"What did you do _now_?”

"She showed me a paper she was about to publish and I made a few – grammatical corrections to it."

"Really?”

Sherlock gave a small sigh and shrugged. “She claims they weren’t needed.”

John rolled his eyes. Why he had expected any different, he did not know. For the last few weeks, whenever he had seen the two of them, they were either sharing some private joke with one another or bickering like children. Lestrade had even rolled his eyes and jokingly said it reminded him of his own marriage. When John had relayed this to Molly, she had merely raised an eyebrow and continued on with her work. When he relayed it to Sherlock however, the consulting detective had little to no reaction, except to give a small sigh.

“Not the greatest comparison,” he’d muttered at the time. John’s eyes had narrowed at this, and his voice was tentative when he asked what exactly Sherlock’s comment had meant.

Sherlock only shrugged. “Nothing.”

John should’ve known that his friend’s tone of voice was far too innocent to be truthful.

* * *

It was little under a week later when the living room at 221b was awash with chatter from Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, John and Mary, that the truth came out.

When John and Mary had arrived, having left Harriet with a babysitter, to help with the party’s set up however, they did not realise they were to be told the truth behind the mystery that was Sherlock and Molly’s recent interactions. What they had found was Sherlock still in one of his many dressing gowns and the flat bare of anything; the consulting detective had clearly stewed into quite a gloomy mood. In fact, it had taken a gargantuan effort on both John and Mary’s part merely to convince Sherlock to get dressed, let alone help with the party.

"What’s wrong with him, do you think?” John asked soon after Sherlock slammed his bedroom door behind him. Mary, busy with fixing party balloons to the fireplace, gave a sigh.

"I honestly have no idea. Has he had any new cases lately?"

"Loads," John replied, shoving a party hat onto Billy the skull. "He’s never been busier."

Mary frowned briefly before waving a hand. “Whatever it is, we’ll find out sooner or later, I’m sure. Let’s just hope he behaves himself tonight.”

* * *

"Honestly, I don’t know why it’s so hard for you to believe someone could be killed through apple seeds—” Molly’s voice came floating up the stairwell. In the darkness of 221b’s living room, Mary rolled her eyes.

"With a large enough dosage, yes, but the victim didn’t have enough apple seeds to qualify it as a cause of death!" Sherlock’s voice retorted and an offended "Oh!" sounded from Molly.

"There were too!" Molly said, her footsteps echoing against the stairs. Sherlock’s heavier footsteps quickly followed on.

"There most certainly were not!"

"Were too!"

"Were not!"

The rattle of keys told Mary that they were at the door and she quickly bid everyone to be quiet as she crept over to the light switch. Molly and Sherlock’s voices—now bickering over the advantages of arsenic over apple seeds—grew louder as Molly opened the door. Immediately, cries of “Surprise!” sounded as the lights snapped on.

Molly, however, was unable to take no notice of her surprise, as she was still embroiled in going toe-to-toe with Sherlock.

"I’m not saying that it’s _impossible_ for someone to die—”

"Apparently you are—”

"It’s only impossible in this particular victim, Molly. Now leave me alone and enjoy your party," Sherlock said irritably, earning a scornful look from John as he moved away from Molly and settled deep into his armchair, a frown forming on his features.

An awful silence surrounded everyone as Molly huffed and glared at the consulting detective; only for her glare to fade when she looked at the room, the decorations, the banner declaring her a happy birthday and Lestrade, John, Mary and Mrs Hudson who all had the same look of hesitant awkwardness on their faces.

"Oh," she muttered, a blush growing over her cheeks as she slipped out of the anger caused by Sherlock. Her eyes flicked towards Mary. "I’m sorry – you must’ve gone to so much trouble…"

"Don’t worry about it," John said with a laugh. "Not your fault that you and Sherlock sound like such an old married couple."

"Well, we are."

Sherlock’s comment caused a number of reactions. Where Mary yelped, Molly’s eyes widened; where John swore loudly, Lestrade spat out the gulp of wine he had taken.

"What?! You and Molly—”

"Are married," Sherlock said calmly and he picked up his violin to gently pick at it. Molly gulped as every single one of the guests looked to her, a mixture of surprise and expectancy on their faces. She gave out a helpless laugh.

"Yeah… We did always _mean_ to tell you…”

* * *

They had been in university. Assembled on Sherlock’s bed, with books scattered around them, Molly had been lying flat on her back with her glasses perched on the edge of her nose as she scanned the pages of her textbook, a well-thumbed copy of Atkins Physical Chemistry. Sherlock meanwhile, was wedged in beside her, a sheaf of papers perched against his knee. For the most part, they were silent, save for Sherlock’s occasional mutterings or Molly’s reading out of passages she thought helpful to him.

"I like this," Sherlock had said matter-of-factly, just as the clock ticked over to 1 o’clock in the morning. Pushing her glasses off her face and to the top of her head, Molly raised her gaze to look up at him.

"Like what?"

"This." Sherlock turned his head, considering her for a moment. He smiled. "We should get married."

As it was early in the morning and they had both been up for approximately 36 hours, Molly did not take his statement seriously. Instead, she gave a shrug and told him to get his essay done first.

Within two hours, he had the whole thing written and ready to submit.

"Well?" he asked. "Any answer?"

Molly had given a wide yawn. “After we’ve both had some sleep.”

Despite Sherlock’s half-hearted protestations that he didn’t _need_ to sleep, he soon found himself underneath his covers, curled up tightly against Molly, his eyes closed and his breath shallow with sleep.

The next morning, when he woke, she was still asleep. Usually he might’ve left her to make himself a cup of tea in the communal kitchen, but this morning was different. This morning, he needed an answer from her.

She stirred ten minutes after he had woken, and in the morning sunlight, she blinked, a sleepy smile on her features.

"Morning."

"I was serious, you know."

"About what?"

"Us, getting married."

Raising an eyebrow, Molly tucked her chin against his chest and reached up to brush her fingers through his tangled curls.

"Well, if you’re serious…"

She finished off her answer by reaching up to press a lingering, loving kiss against his mouth.

* * *

John could only blink as Sherlock recounted the tale. Sherlock, marriage… the two words just did not seem to fit. He had known him for five or more years now, and still the man did not make sense. The others all seem to share his sentiment, as not one word had been said between all of them for the entirety of Sherlock’s story.

"So wait – for the entire time that we’ve all known you, you’ve been married to Molly?" John asked slowly.

"Yes. I believe that’s what I just said."

"But – but she’s never _been_ here, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson said, breathless in her confusion.

"Correction: Molly has never been here when you’ve been here, Mrs Hudson."

"What about me?" John asked. "I was unemployed for much of the time that I lived with you."

"You can’t possibly have believed every time I left the flat was because I was on a case."

"I, err… I guess I assumed you were, yeah." His brows furrowed. "But what about – you know – your _thing_ with Irene?”

"What kind of thing?" Sherlock asked, apparently perplexed.

"Didn't you - have a thing?"

"The Woman and I had a connection, certainly, and I’m not saying mine and Molly’s marriage was always a good one. I am, after all, a stunningly difficult man to live with as you well know. And my connection with the Woman did cause a rift between us for a time," Sherlock explained, just as Molly returned from the kitchen, now with wine glass in hand, and she perched against the side of Sherlock’s chair, only for the consulting detective to wrap his arm around her side, his palm gently covering at her hip.

"And what about Tom?" Lestrade asked, earning a look from Sherlock. Clearly a sensitive topic. Lestrade ignored Sherlock though, and looked to Molly. "You told me it was serious between you two."

Molly sighed. “That was Mycroft. When one of Moriarty’s henchmen got too close to knowing about my marriage to Sherlock, he assigned me one of his bodyguards.”

"But he did look a lot—"

"My brother’s idiotic version of a practical joke," Sherlock said tightly, and John watched, mouth still open in surprise, as Molly took a sip of wine in a clear attempt to laugh at her husband’s—her _husband’s_ —petulant tone.

"So, your death." John’s voice was short, and tense. "How exactly did Molly react to that?"

"We were still separated at that time," Molly admitted. "I didn’t know the full extent of Moriarty’s… influence. But I could tell when my husband was unnerved. I offered my help."

"Luckily, I took her up on that offer."

* * *

After he had fallen, she knew he was not only exhausted, but broken. He had been through so much in such little time; and she knew she had to be there for him. It almost broke her heart when, in the middle of the night, he had knocked on her door and quietly asked to come in. For her, there was no hesitation in her answer; and as she stood and stepped towards him, she took him by the hand and led him towards her bed, pulling the covers over him as he lay in her bed, facing her.

Slowly, he splayed out his fingertips. Molly smiled, but said nothing as she carefully mirrored his own actions and touched gently at his fingertips. It was a habit they had picked up even before they were married, this mirroring of actions. It made not just her feel safe, but him too. Just that small piece of contact spoke eons.

Sherlock’s gaze dropped and he swallowed thickly, preparing to say something. Molly didn’t urge him; she knew that she didn’t need to.

"I know – I know we’re separated, and I know you said you needed time, but…"

Gently, Molly touched at his chin, bringing his gaze up to hers. Without a word, she cupped at his jaw, tracing her thumb carefully against his cheek, and she leaned forward to finally kiss him. After months of wary contact and hidden looks and awkward conversations, it was a relief to finally do so. His hand fell away from hers, coming with his other to wrap tightly against her waist, pulling her closer.

"You are my husband," Molly had said after they broke away from each other, and she smiled as Sherlock nuzzled against her collarbone, dropping kisses onto her skin. "For better or worse, remember?"

"For better or worse," Sherlock echoed, memories of going cold turkey shuddering through his mind. That phrase, the knowledge that she would be there whatever the situation, in whatever capacity, was what had got him through that particular period of his life; and it would do so again.

* * *

"What about – what about your relapse?" Mary asked, addressing the one, very large, elephant in the room.

"That took some time," Molly said, looking at Sherlock who only held her closer. She looked back to Mary. "I had him pee in a cup every day for a month before I forgave him."

"Terrible, that month. I had to drink a lot of water," Sherlock said, earning a laugh from Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, and he chuckled as Molly playfully shoved at his shoulder.

"You did date that Janine girl though," Mrs Hudson said thoughtfully, tilting her head at Molly. "You can’t have been happy about that, dear."

Molly gave a shrug. “Well…”

* * *

**_SHAG-A-LOT HOLMES_ **

**_SEVEN TIMES IN BAKER STREET_ **

Molly rolled her eyes and threw the newspapers onto the table to raise an eyebrow at an increasingly sheepish looking Sherlock.

"You’re shaping up to be a pretty rubbish husband, you know that?"

"Forgive me?"

Sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, Molly gave a sigh.

"Come on then—what’s the damage?"

"Damage?"

"Don’t play innocent. You had a month to play boyfriend – you must’ve done _some_ things with her.”

Sherlock sighed heavily. “Some light flirtation bordering on heavy, one sharing of bath water, and one kiss which I did not reciprocate.”

Slowly, Molly nodded, absorbing the information. She aimed a look at him.

"And the rest of the time, you were at mine?"

"I’m sure I was."

"Aside from the times you were off getting high. Why did I marry you again?"

"I honestly have no idea, but I’m very grateful for it."

"Obviously not grateful enough. Sherlock, you’re being an absolute idiot. First the relapse into drugs, and now fake girlfriends, all to break into a man’s office? I mean, what next? You’re burning yourself out.”

“I have to—”

“I know,” Molly said quietly. “You want to protect John, you want to protect Mary and you want to protect me; everyone you come across, you want to protect.”

“What’s so bad about wanting to protect people?”

Molly reached forward to touch at his fingers. She smiled a gentle, understanding smile.

“Nothing’s bad about wanting to protect the people you love. But have you ever stopped to think that maybe those people want to protect _you_?”

When Sherlock remained silent, she reached up to draw her fingers through his curls in a tiny gesture of comfort. His mouth flickered with a smile as he leaned into her touch.

“You won’t leave me again?” The question came out as a whisper. Molly shook her head.

“No. I know when I’m needed.”

“I meant what I said at the guy’s flat. You are the one that matters most to me.”

Molly pressed a kiss to his cheek, the memory of that day coming back to her in an instant. He had been unable to say anything overt for the entire day—Mycroft’s orders, annoyingly—but he had disobeyed the instructions of his brother for that tiny, endlessly precious moment.

“I know,” she murmured against his ear and she felt him turn her head to kiss at her cheek, making her smile as she gazed at him and those eternally curious, ice blue eyes of his.

“Let me protect you, Sherlock Holmes.”

He nodded.

Of course, the silly man never did allow her to keep a promise.

* * *

The first time she had been given the knowledge of her husband now being a murderer was through Mycroft. It had been in the middle of the night, and a knock had come at her door. Bleary eyed, she made her way out of bed and into the hallway. On opening the door, she found Anthea stood there, phone in hand and dressed sharply as always. Not allowing for greetings or questions, she stepped inside.

“I’m sorry Mrs Holmes, but it appears that you’re going to have to come with me.”

Molly paled. “Sherlock – is he hurt – what’s happened?”

“Your husband is fine – but he is currently classed as a murderer.”

“What—”

“There’s a car waiting for you. Get dressed and pack an overnight bag – quickly, if at all possible,” Anthea ordered. Molly did not hesitate. She streaked back into her bedroom and shoved on jeans and threw on a shirt and her jacket, stuffing a bag with any clean clothes she could get her hands on. Five minutes later, with both her bag over her shoulder and Toby in her arms, she was stood outside her flat, watching as Anthea deftly locked it. Together, they made their way down the steps and out of her building to be met by a sleek black saloon car.

Anthea swiftly opened the door, but before Molly got in, she looked towards the usually cold and blunt assistant.

“You said – Sherlock’s a murderer?”

“Everything will be explained later, Mrs Holmes. Right now, you need to get into the car.”

Molly obeyed without question.

It was light by the time she was allowed out of the car, only to find that she was not in London but in the rolling hills of Derbyshire. Anthea silently escorted her down a small country path towards a stonewalled cottage, hidden among a cluster of trees. It would’ve looked like a perfect country idyll, if it were not for the armed guards that stood by the door and the security cameras that Molly could practically feel scanning her as she passed. The guards nodded once at Anthea as she passed them and made to unlock the door. Opening it, she nodded to the inside, gesturing for Molly to step inside.

Hesitantly, Molly did so, jumping when the door was shut behind her. Letting out a careful sigh, she continued to move forward. Toby gave a curious mewl, and a door to Molly’s right opened. Mycroft stepped out. A thin smile appeared on his lips.

“Mrs Holmes.”

“Mycroft?” Sherlock’s voice bled through from the room. Molly, not waiting for any sort of approval from Mycroft or anyone else, dropped Toby onto the wooden floor and ran forward, wrenching open the door.

The living room itself was small, furnished with clearly expensive antiques. Quaint—quiet. Stood by the fireplace was Sherlock. Contrary to the way in which she had last seen him, he was almost haggard, his curls were tangled and his face was pale.

Darting around the furniture, Molly sprinted towards him and threw herself against him, locking her arms around his neck. The embrace Sherlock drew her into was desperate, needy, searching.

“God, Sherlock,” she breathed, pulling away from him, eyes searching his. “What happened? Anthea told me you—”

She pulled him into another tight embrace.

“Magnussen was a threat,” he mumbled against her, kissing briefly at her hair. “I had to eliminate him.”

Molly pulled her arms away from his neck and gently steered him towards the sofa, sitting them both down.

“What will happen to you? You can’t go to prison.”

“No. No, Mycroft’s decided to be much kinder. There’s an undercover mission in Eastern Europe. Should take six months.”

“Six months?”

Sherlock’s expression was blank, but his grip around her hand tightened. She swallowed, bowing her head.

“Oh. Six months.”

“Mm. It seems that the game is over.”

“No it isn’t.” Molly’s voice was firmer than she intended, and when Sherlock looked to her, brows furrowed, she rested her head against his shoulder.

“It’ll just have some new players. That’s all.”

“New players. Nice way of looking at it.”

“How long do you have before you have to go?”

Sherlock glanced at his watch. “Five hours. Maybe six.”

“Hardly seems fair, does it?”

He had no reply to this, but he still wrapped his arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer. In response, she curled up tighter against him, moving her knees against her chest until they were both cocooned against each other.

She didn’t know how long they stayed there; it could’ve been two minutes or three hours, but she found that she didn’t really care. Her husband needed her, and she needed him.

* * *

“So that was why Molly was the first one you went to see when Moriarty made his grand return,” John said, with a vague tone of realisation. “I guess it all makes sense now.”

“Mm,” Sherlock said with a smile. He reached up to briefly graze his lips against Molly’s temple before he shifted his gaze back to the astonished group. “I suppose it does.”


	86. Standard Medical Procedure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Molly having to perform CPR on Sherlock.
> 
> Warning: Presence of entirely Hollywood CPR is in this fic.

"Sherlock," Molly’s voice was hesitant, "are you _entirely_ sure this is safe?”

The consulting detective, merrily busy ridding himself of his jacket, shoes and socks, gave a nod and flicked a grin at her.

"Of course."

Molly pulled her coat tighter around herself, watching as Sherlock jumped to his feet, rolling up his trousers before he moved closer to the edge of the marsh, the muddy water touching at his feet.

"We need to find out at what point the dead man fell into the lake, or whether the dead man was actually killed elsewhere and dumped here. Look after my jacket, won’t you?"

Sighing, Molly nodded and picked up the discarded jacket as Sherlock, his smile having formed into a frown of concentration as he inched forward. The marshes themselves, hidden away in the confines of Kent, were cold, thick with fog and something lifted straight out of a classic Victorian novel. It wouldn’t have surprised Molly—and would’ve no doubt delighted Sherlock—if an escaped criminal had appeared out of the fog and asked them for food.

"The water’s only a few inches deep," Sherlock called over his shoulder as he continued to step forward, "the theory that the dead man was killed elsewhere is looking remarkably—AARGH!"

With a flail of his limbs and an almighty splash, Sherlock descended into the muddy water before he juddered to a halt, the water just coming up to his shoulders. Molly clutched at his jacket, her gasp of shock quickly turning into a giggle at Sherlock’s brief look of confusion before his mouth raised in a grin.

"Ah! So, a _slight_ descent – still not enough to warrant an accidental drowning though – I’ll just move forward a bit, see if it gets any lower…”

"Sherlock, don’t – why don’t we…" Molly gazed around the marshes, but saw nothing. They were as empty as they had always been. She shrugged helplessly. “Get the coastguard?”

She received no reply; and when she turned back to look at Sherlock, she found out why. He was nowhere to be seen. Only a few small air bubbles and vague ripples on the surface of the water indicated what had happened.

Dropping his jacket, Molly rapidly stripped herself of her coat, cardigan and t-shirt and discarded them against the long grass before she took a breath, waded into the water and dove.

Underneath the water’s surface, she could barely see, but she could feel. The water was muddy against her feet, strands of long grass tickled against her feet and her jeans grew heavy with the weight of the water. She swam, blindly making her way forward, her head turning every which way, even though all she could see was the dark, muddy brown of the marsh water.

Finally, her hands touched at an arm. A very familiar arm of a very familiar consulting detective. Gripping it tightly, Molly swam up and up until a violet splash of water and the sting of fresh air against her lungs and her skin told her she had made it. Swinging Sherlock’s arm over her shoulder, she continued to swim forward, dragging the both of their mud-covered carcasses towards the bank.

“Stupid – stupid – idiot – _man!_ ” she coughed as she scooted over to the unconscious Sherlock, who now lay, limbs splayed out, against the long grass of the bank, his clothes soaked and covered in mud. Firmly, she shook at Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Sherlock!”

No response.

“Right.” Trying not to think about the fact that the last time she had performed CPR was on a dummy in a classroom, she dipped her head close to his mouth. Slight breathing. Okay. Straightening her back, she folded her knees underneath her and knelt close to Sherlock’s side, positioning her hands over his chest, counting softly under her breath. Reaching 30, she reached forward and tilted her head to press her mouth against Sherlock’s.

“Molly—” His voice came out as a mumble, and Molly felt herself freeze. “I believe the chest compressions were more than enough.”

Her cheeks grew hot, but before she could let her hands fall away from the consulting detective’s face and pull herself up and away from the consulting detective, he spoke, propping himself up on his elbows, tilting his head at her.

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t like it.”

Her smile grew.

“Oh. Okay.”


	87. Nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Molly goes on a case with Sherlock and John, and there's some sort of scuffle involving a gun and John and Sherlock are trying to get it off him. There's a bang and they get it off the guy. Molly's hit, they don't notice straight away.
> 
> Written in the 221b format (221 word count, last word beginning with "b").

The gunshot echoed around the empty side street, and was followed by two sounds: the sound of a deep groan as John finally incapacitated the culprit and the sound of a faint call of Sherlock’s name. He whipped around, and terror seared through him.

Molly stood, weakly, against the brick wall, her hand pressed against her stomach. Blood slowly seeped through the shirt, staining the tips of her fingers. Her eyes locked with Sherlock’s, and he could feel his heart shatter as he rushed forward. Her features paled as she, with her last scrap of energy, stumbled forward. He caught her as easy as it was to breathe. How could he not have noticed? He dimly heard John swear and the beep of his phone as he futilely phoned for an ambulance. Sherlock’s gaze remained on Molly as she reached up, with shaking fingers, to touch lightly at his cheek. A weak smile stretched over her mouth. She made to speak.

* * *

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. Cocooned against him in the dark of their bed, Molly slept, her fingers tightly wound around his. Gently, needing to ground himself from the dream, he nuzzled and kissed at her hair. It was just a dream. Just a dream. The reality was much sweeter: she was his wife, she was alive, and she was beautiful.


	88. Game, Set, Match. (Khan/Molly Hooper)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eponymous prompt from startraveller776.

_**Game.** _

Her breaths were irregular, jagged, as she sprinted down the corridor, the tangled curls of her hair flying behind her and the syringe tightly closed in the palm of her hand. Without breaking her speed, she glanced behind her. For the moment, the corridor was empty. She continued to run, turning quickly right around a corner and into another corridor. This one was smaller—narrower—than the previous, and doors flitted past her as she ran. Breathing harder, she scrabbled to a halt and pressed quickly against the control panel, but the door didn’t budge.

“Having trouble, are we?” a silken voice asked. Her breath finally stilled and she turned her head to see that right at the end of the corridor stood the only other living and breathing person on the ship: Khan. He tilted his head slightly as a smile grew on his lips.

“Fuck,” she breathed, and she turned her head back to the control panel, more than aware of the way Khan had begun to slowly step towards her, still with that dangerous smile. The door in front of Molly remained frustratingly closed, and with a growl, she slammed her palm against the control panel.

Her action seemed to somehow (miraculously) work, for the door quickly slid open and she found herself grinning triumphantly when she dived inside the quarters to see the door slide closed. That same grin faded when the familiar bleep of the control panel, muffled, bled through the door and it soon slid open to reveal Khan stood there. Without a word, he moved forward and stepped through.

* * *

_**Set.** _

“I have to admit, this is a merry chase you’ve led me on, Officer Hooper,” he said, tilting his head at her, his eyes narrowed in amusement. Molly’s lungs grew tight and her breathing grew short as he continued to move forward.

“But I believe I’ve won.” His smile grew as she stumbled back against the bed, her eyes never once leaving him. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Her breathing was hesitant as he loomed over her and she raised her hand, the syringe still tightly encased in her palm. Just one more step—one more step…

He moved forward, deftly catching at her wrist with his fingers. Her eyes deepened into a glare, but he only smiled, and gave out a low chuckle as he pushed her back onto the bed and straddled himself against her. He pressed her hands against the pillow, leaning closely over her until his breath traced against her lips. She was so delicious this way, struggling against her own desires; struggling not to give in to his ministrations.

“Arsenic?” he asked softly, drawing his thumb across the hollow of her cheek before he trailed his other hand down her arm to clutch at the syringe, drawing it from her palm and setting it on the surface to his right. “I am an Augment, Officer Hooper.”

“I know,” Molly said quietly, her eyes sharp and with more force that he knew she possessed, she rolled them until she had her thighs pinned tightly against his hips. “The components of the poison will simply be absorbed into your bloodstream and dissolve.”

Fascination in her eyes, her gaze traced over his form and her palms slowly made their way up his chest, as if she were seeing him with new eyes.

This was very nice, Khan decided. Very… enticing. Needing her closer to him, he gripped at her hips with one hand and clasped at the curls of her hair with his other, greedily absorbing the sight of her like this, wilfully trapped underneath his hands. Molly spoke again.

“Really, the worst I can do is to knock you out for a few hours.”

Khan’s smile slipped as he caught onto her meaning. His eyes flicked towards the bedside surface, but the syringe was nowhere to be seen.

A sharp, brief pain stabbed at him as she thrust the needle into his upper arm. His grip around her tightened and his eyes blazed as he tugged her closer to him. For the first time, he saw the briefest glimmer of terror in her eyes.

“What have you done?” he demanded.

“I will not love you.” Her voice was soft, but her lips formed into a snarl. “ _Khan._ ”

“Molly—” he said, an attempt at a warning, but it was too late. His vision became blurred and his hands slowly fell away from her body as the drug began to take its toll. Her name was the last thing said between them before he fell against the bed with a dull thud.

* * *

_**Match.** _

His heartbeat was slow, and his eyesight was blurred, at best. Slowly, he tried to pull his right arm towards his side, but it wouldn’t budge; and if it did, his left arm came with it. Through hooded eyelids, he glanced downwards. A laugh escaped him, and he tipped his head back against the window of the shuttle, finally lifting his eyes open. Restraints. Of course. She wasn’t, after all, entirely stupid. He turned his head to look behind him. His ship, the Botany Bay, was just a dot in the endless space behind them, abandoned and hollow.

“You’ve been out for three hours.”

Her voice came from behind him and he turned his head back, focusing on her. His smile widened, and he gave a small, melodramatic sigh.

“Such a pity you remain so loyal to Starfleet, Officer Hooper. We could have ruled worlds together.”

She said nothing, but he could’ve sworn that their speed had increased by just the tiniest amount. A venting of frustration perhaps? He did hope so. It would’ve been so nice if she was—her fire, her hidden fire, was what made her so utterly delicious to a man like him. He tried again, stretching out his legs as he leaned against the seat.

“Yes, I had some marvellous plans for you, Officer Hooper. At first, I thought it would be best to kill you, but after being taken into your bed—”

At this, her head whipped around, eyes flashing. Ah. So there was her sore spot.

“You were never taken into my bed; John Harrison was.”

He considered her words, but only for a brief moment.

“As I was saying, after being taken into your bed, I found that I’d grown rather fond of that little mewling moan of yours. Ever so enticing, if you ask me,” he purred, directing a salacious smile at her. He saw the briefest of smiles at the edges of her mouth, but that swiftly disappeared when she turned away from him.

“I don’t know why you’re so intent on flying this vessel, Officer Hooper – it’s on autopilot after all – which leads me to think that you’re trying to avoid conversation with me.” He smiled knowingly, leaning forwards. “I wonder why that it is.”

“Do you want to know what your problem is?” she asked, turning her gaze towards him. “You say you’re seeking knowledge out; but you’re not. You’re imparting knowledge and opinions you already have and forcing people to accept them.”

He tilted his head, considering her. His hands flexed against his restraints and he noted the delicious rising of her chest that came with her shortened breaths as he stood from his seat and slowly made his way towards her. With both of his hands, he took a hold of her seat and twisted it until she was face to face with him.

“Unbound me then, Miss Hooper,” he said, voice soft. “Unbound me and teach me.”

“Teach you – what?”

A small smile quirked at his lips. “How to seek out knowledge of course.”

“I won’t love you.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“You’re demanding it.”

“Unbound me.”

She held his glare with her own. Slowly, she stood. He didn’t miss the brief shaking of her hands before she raised them to cup and draw against his cheeks. His small smile widened, but he made no sound. Her fingers found their way into his hair, and she clutched, tightly, her nails touching against his scalp. When he still made no sound, she gripped harder. A groan, followed by a laugh, escaped him.

“Experimentation isn’t—”

He never achieved the completion of that sentence, for she swiftly reached up, pulling him down towards her to capture his mouth. This time, it was her who pushed back and he who stumbled back. Although limited by his restraints, he still deepened their embrace, allowing her to push him back against and onto the seat. Breaking the kiss for only a moment, she took a step forward and straddled her knees at either side of his lap. Any attempt to speak was gone from him when he saw the spark—the fire—in her eyes and the flush that had grown over her cheeks. She caught him in another, more passionate embrace this time, locking her arms around his shoulders as they pushed and pulled against one another. Her hair fell against her shoulder, tendrils touching at his own as she pressed herself closer against him, and oh but he could rip apart these restraints if it meant being able to just _touch_ her, at least once. Touching her, feeling her heated skin under the pads of his fingertips, was an ecstasy he had only ever truly appreciated when it was denied. He reached forward, to touch at her waist, but the restraints made him clumsy.

“Molly—” Her name flooded from in a gasp, a sound that was pleading. Pleading. He was actually _pleading_ with her. Under his command, she had made him, moulded him, into a little more than a plaything for her own amusement.

The thought gave him a delight that he had never experienced before; a delight that only Molly Hooper could provide.


	89. Deduction of a Craving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Molly is hugely pregnant and suffering from cravings. Sherlock is trying to deduce exactly what she wants.
> 
> Another written in the 221b ficlet format.

Climbing onto the bed and crawling towards the nest of pillows that Molly had made up for herself, Sherlock knelt in front of his wife and frowned. He peered at her, his gaze sweeping over her features.

“Asparagus.”

Molly made a face in response. Tilting his head, he tried again.

“Cheesecake.”

“I’m allergic.”

“Carrots.”

Molly sighed, raising an eyebrow. “I’m pregnant, not Rudolph the bloody Red-nosed Reindeer.”

Sherlock’s hands gently stroked at her large swollen belly and he pressed his lips together, his brows furrowing in thought.

“What do pregnant women _usually_ want?”

“That’s cheating,” Molly said, her smile twitching at the side of her mouth as she drew her fingers gently through his curls. “You said you wanted to work it out.”

Sherlock sighed. “I did, didn’t I?”

Slowly, he drew himself away from her and settled on his side of the bed, tucking his fingers against his chin. Molly sighed. Sometimes she could’ve sworn her husband only chose to be a genius when he wanted to. Clearly a bigger hint was needed. With a slight grunt and a hand on her belly, she shifted closer to him and leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. She was pleased to see her husband’s eyes fly open. He smiled.

“Ah – that’s what you’re craving?”

“Yes.”

His grin grew. “Brilliant.”


	90. The Appeal of Purple Shirts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Sherlock's clothes seem tighter than ever lately, and everyone has noticed - maybe he's trying to impress a certain pathologist?
> 
> I strayed from the prompt a little bit.

Buttons. It all started with buttons. One evening, Martha had been sitting in front of her television, sleepily watching it when there came an impatient knock on her door, followed by the impatient calling of her name by her impossible tenant. Giving a sigh, Martha got out of her chair and opened the door to her flat. Sherlock gave no greeting towards her, and didn’t bother with a compliment. Instead, he held a shirt out towards her, and pressed it into her palms.

"Two of the buttons have come off. I need you to sew them back on; quickly, if at all possible."

He didn’t leave her time to answer, but instead hurried upstairs. As he opened the door to 221b, Martha could’ve sworn to hear the briefest and most female of giggles.

With a shake of her head, she decided it was simply her imagination and stepped back into her flat.

* * *

Lestrade had grown used to hearing many things and encountering a variety of sights when in the company of Sherlock Holmes; but he never expected to see, as the consulting detective crouched down to inspect a certain element of the crime scene, an actual rip of clothing, right down the side of his usually pristine shirt. Sherlock however, seemed unfazed by it.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said quietly. "You know, uh—"

As Sherlock turned to look at him, he discreetly pointed towards the ripped hole in the side of the consulting detective’s shirt.

Contrary to the reaction anyone else might have made, Sherlock grinned and jumped back onto his feet.

"Ah, wonderful. The gardener’s wife did it by the way; I’ll tell you how later on."

He had swept from the crime scene before Lestrade had the chance to see him go.

* * *

The door to 221b flew open with an urgency that only belonged to Sherlock Holmes. Languidly, Molly looked up from her book and tilted her head. Her gaze zeroed in on the rip in his shirt as Sherlock shrugged off his Belstaff. She gave a small sigh.

"You really shouldn’t wear such tight shirts you know."

Sherlock gave a shrug and kicked the door shut with his foot, deftly unbuttoning his shirt.

"It wasn’t the tightness of the shirt that caused the rip, Molly," he said with a knowing raise of his eyebrow. "More the vigorous nature of the last person who handled it."

His pale torso was a stark contrast to the deep purple of his now open shirt as he leaned over her, and Molly could feel her cheeks briefly turn pink as his grin widened.

"But you wear such lovely shirts…" she said, her soft voice almost a whine as she shifted away from him towards the other end of the sofa, allowing him space to kneel in front of her, his arms either side of her body and his mouth inches from hers. 

"And you," he murmured, briefly touching his forehead to hers before he kissed at her temple, "need to learn to control yourself, pet."

"If you didn’t wear such lovely shirts, _sir_ , I wouldn’t have to learn.”

"Ah." Sherlock reached up and tapped at her nose lightly before he cupped at her cheek. "It seems that we have reached an impasse."

"And how will we solve that, sir?" Molly asked, breathless.

Letting his hand carefully trail downwards and cup gently at her neck, he bent his head and kissed the spot just behind her ear, nipping slightly at her lobe and Molly moaned appreciatively, just as he began to slowly draw back. Her hands had already begun to trail against his stomach and chest. He smiled and kissed her again, nuzzling his nose against hers in the lightest, sweetest of touches. His smile grew as he, with one hand, began to unbutton her blouse.

"I suppose I have a few ideas."


	91. Secret Girlfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: With the help of Sherlock and John the yard managed to solve a massive case. John forces Sherlock to join him and the rest of the yard for a celebratory drink down at the pub. They try and get him to talk to some girls but he refuses because he has a secret girlfriend.
> 
> Set some time during series 1.

John just had to laugh. Crowded among the jovial, laughing members of New Scotland Yard was not a place Sherlock Holmes usually found himself; as a result, the most hideous of scowls had crossed his face. That scowl only deepened when Anderson, already completely drunk, slapped a heavy hand against his back.

"How about you go talk to those girls over there?" he said with a burp, pointing at a small gaggle of women over in the corner of the pub, to which Sherlock glowered and moodily continued to drink his pint. John gave a snort as Anderson violently nudged at Sherlock’s side.

"C’mon! I bet you could deduce a few things about them, eh?" He winked, though quite what he was attempting to connotate was lost on Sherlock, who narrowed his eyes but said nothing.

"Anderson’s going to have a pint tipped over him if he doesn’t stop any time soon," Lestrade said, stood to John’s right. John gave a nod. It was akin to watching a car crash, seeing a drunken Anderson try to pal up to a sober Sherlock Holmes, but somehow, neither John nor Lestrade could look away.

It was a mild surprise therefore when they saw Sherlock’s gaze obligingly fall on the group of women. There were about five of them, and four of them hadn’t stopped staring at the large group of police officers. The last of them however had her back to the group, and seemed to hold very little interest in the goings on at the bar.

Sherlock sighed. “Two married, one recently single, one separated and – excuse me a moment.”

"What, are you off to the bogs?" Lestrade asked, as if surprised that a man such as Sherlock indulged in such basic needs. Sherlock gave a small smirk.

"No." Downing the rest of his pint, Sherlock stepped back from the bar and to the ever growing surprise of all the New Scotland Yard police officers and John, he made his way over to the group of women. Ignoring the four women who had been so focused on them moments before, the consulting detective made a beeline for the fifth woman. A brief conversation and an offer of his Belstaff later, he was quickly making his way from the pub, with his arm wrapped tightly around the woman’s shoulders, hiding her face from the view of his drinking companions.

The group looked to one another. Since when did Sherlock Holmes voluntarily pull women? Anderson frowned.

"Which – which ones did he say were the married ones again?"

* * *

Sherlock pressed his hands against the cool brick of the alleyway, staring down at the woman he was in such close proximity to. Without a word, he leaned downwards and captured her mouth in a searing kiss. The smell of alcohol and cigarettes was still on her breath.

"You’re smoking again," he said, pressing a kiss just underneath her jaw. She made a small noise of protest underneath him.

"So are you. What are you doing here anyway? You said you were going straight back to your flat tonight."

"Change of plans," Sherlock murmured, nipping a little at her collarbone. as her hands began to roam against his shirt, feeling his torso against the material. "John forced me to accompany him."

He could feel her puzzled frown. “John?”

"New flatmate. Didn’t I tell you?"

"No."

"Oh."

She aimed a look at him. “Why did he invite you out?”

Sherlock gave a shrug and kissed her again, briefly this time as he curled his hands around her waist. “Something about getting me out of the flat.” He grinned. “Apparently I’m not social enough.”

She gave a giggle. “You’re plenty social enough with me.”

"You're an exception," Sherlock whispered against her ear, nibbling lightly at her lobe. He sighed lightly. "But enough talk – had enough of that for a lifetime."

His palm came to rest against her thigh. "I’m far more interested in this dress of yours."

"And how quickly you can get it off."

Sherlock smirked. “Am I really that obvious?”

Molly smiled as he reached forward, gently arching against him. Her eyes shone. "Yes."


	92. Hold On.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Sherlock and Molly as ex-wife/husband.

She’d always shown interest in reconciliation. Her smiles, her light tone of voice, her jokes followed by hesitant offers of a date. All signals that she deeply regretted their split. He brushed every single one of them away. She wasn’t his wife anymore. In divorcing her, he had divorced himself from sentiment, or indeed any force of emotion that could weaken him as she had weakened him. Sherlock Holmes had done relationships. He wasn’t going to do them again.

Yet that didn’t stop his own mind from betraying him.

It started slowly. Little comments and a dark glare here and there, designed to keep away any potential suitors or insufferable laboratory assistants from sniffing around her. He told himself he was merely looking out for her, and making sure that the man she chose to move on with would bring her true happiness. In time, he convinced himself it was the actions of a friend to another friend, and not the actions of an ex-husband licking still sore wounds.

Therefore, to know that she had managed to move on without his knowledge stung and hurt deeper than he ever believed it could. In that moment, he hated her. Bile rose in his throat as his gaze zeroed in on the only well-wrapped present in her bag; a small, rectangular box, encased in crimson red paper, complete with a box. Probably something with a sentimental connection to it; she’d present it to him, and he’d be so happy to receive it, giving her sloppy kisses as his hands roamed against her waist. Tipsy from wine and delirious from the success of her gift, she’d giggle and let this boyfriend of hers do exactly what he’d intended—she’d move on. He would lose his pathologist, to someone who was no doubt distinctly average. Someone she didn’t deserve.

"I see you’ve got a new boyfriend, Molly. And you’re serious about him." No-one noticed the bitter aftertaste of his words. Not even her.

Her brows creased with a frown. “Sorry, what?”

"In fact, you’re seeing him this very night and giving him a gift."

John, miraculously, managed to see what was about to happen before either he or she did. He closed his eyes briefly.

"Take a day off," he muttered, his exasperation quiet, unnoticeable to the indignant thoughts forming inside Sherlock. Lestrade, in an attempt to lighten the mood, pushed a glass towards Sherlock.

"Shut up and have a drink."

Sherlock ignored the offer. He turned to Molly instead, his gaze briefly moving around the room before settling back on his ex-wife. Ex. A word that itched at him; had always itched at him. Ex. An irritant he was never able to get rid of.

"Oh, come on," he said, half-jokingly. It was so obvious, so painfully obvious. She had a boyfriend. She had moved on. "Surely you’ve all seen the present at the top of the bag – perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best. It’s for someone special, then."

He directed a look at her as he picked the present out of the bag, tossing it between his hands. Even now, she was playing the doe-eyed look of innocence. He knew, everybody knew—what was she trying to hide? Deductions tripped from his tongue as he continued to look over the present.

"The shade of red echoes her lipstick – either an unconscious association or one that she’s deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has _love_ on her mind. The fact that she’s serious about him is clear from the fact she’s giving him a gift at all. That would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn; and that she’s seeing him tonight is evident from her make-up and what she’s wearing. Obvious trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts…”

His mouth and throat went dry. The words on the gift tag shone out at him.

 _Dearest Sherlock_  
_Love Molly xxx_

Three kisses. Romantic attachment. Wife not girlfriend. Old deductions, made from memories that he thought he had forgotten, of previous gifts, birthday and Christmas, with those same three kisses and that same feminine, looped handwriting. His blood pounded in his ears. Stupid, stupid, _stupid._

Her voice tugged him back into the reality of the situation.

"You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always, _always_.”

No-one else but them knew the meaning behind her words. They thought she meant the snide comments about her use of lipstick, or the brazen rejections he made of her offers of coffee. Her meaning went deeper than that. Far, far deeper than any of them could’ve guessed.

* * *

He had clung to her. A sweating, babbling mess, his mind swam and he clung to her. Where he once craved heroine, he now craved her. Mycroft tried to keep her away. He claimed she was an enabler, but Sherlock knew better. She was his counterpoint, and all he could see, all he could think of during this madness. Mycroft tried to pull her back, but he found her. Somewhere, in the pits of London, in some hellhole of a flat, he found her. He fucked her, his lips on her neck, biting down and gasping as she came, scratching her nails against his back and drawing blood. Her wedding ring shone against the cold fluorescent lights of her room. And every night, he repeated the act. Out of the rehab facility, across London, to her and her bed.

Mycroft knew as soon almost as soon as he stepped through the doors of the rehab facility. He reeked of sex, he said coldly, before he’d swept from the room. That night, Sherlock had made one, last escape and made his way across London to her. Already half-asleep, she said nothing but merely shifted across and allowed him to slip into bed beside her. The sex they shared that night was not the hurried, passionate fucks of previous nights, but a silent, slow, understanding declaration.

It was the next morning that Sherlock was carted off (the doctors preferred the term ‘transferred’) to some other rehab facility, hidden away in the dales of Derbyshire. The divorce papers, her signature fresh on the page, came not long after. With a thin smile, he asked his brother how long it took It took him to acquire that particular signature. “Surprisingly quickly,” his brother replied cool. It took Sherlock a year to get out of that place, clean with only the scars of track marks to remind him of what he’d done. He returned to London not soon after.

He had just begun work as a consulting detective when he met her again. She was tentative around him; as if he was a grenade, and the countdown had already begun.

"I was wondering if you’d like to talk, about—"

"There’s nothing to talk about, Molly." His tone of voice was cool, sharp. "In truth, there’s never been anything to talk about. Our relationship was, after all, purely physical."

A lie and a well-chosen one.

* * *

Now he saw. He saw not just how devastating he had been, but how ignorant he had been. All those smiles, those jokes, the offers of coffee… that light tone of voice… Every time he had deduced her, he had been wrong. Everything she did, even the gift he now carried, were the actions of a friend. Or at least someone who was trying to be. The echoes of sentiment and romantic attachments were exactly what they were supposed to be. Echoes.

The snide comments, the dark glares and the subtle warnings he had made… all the actions of a jealous ex-husband unable to let her go.

"I am sorry. Forgive me." He stepped closer, leaning down. His voice was soft. "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."

He kissed her cheek. He had clung to her once before. He needed to hold on for a little while longer.


	93. Early Morning Mishaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by conchepcion to do a Sherlolly fic of this scene from Coupling: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oZNA4rscvOA

Greg took a swig of his pint and squinted. To say he was puzzled was an understatement. “Okay. So take us through it again. You went to Molly’s flat at three in the morning.”

Sherlock sighed and ran his hands over his face.

"I didn’t exactly mean to."

John, unused to seeing his friend so confused, briefly raised an eyebrow as he took a sip from his own pint glass. This, he thought, would no doubt be good.

* * *

Glass. Card. Spider. Wild. Four key words; four easy procedures. The fact that he’d had to traipse across London to perform those aforementioned procedures at three in the damn morning was frankly, ludicrous. Huffing, he leaned against the door and pressed his thumb, hard, against the doorbell. A scuffle, a mutter of voices and the door was quickly opened. Molly pulled her dressing gown tighter around herself. The fact that she had the audacity to look shocked made him sigh heavily.

"You get a glass, Molly." He stepped inside. "Then you get a piece of card." He moved through her flat, hands tucked deep inside his Belstaff.

"Sherlock—"

"You place the glass over the spider, or whatever other insect you encounter, and you slide the card underneath the glass, thus trapping the insect in question." He threw a falsely charming grin over his shoulder at her. She still wore an expression of shock. "This is all seeming incredibly simple so far, don’t you agree?"

Turning right, he stepped into her bedroom. He headed straight for the two-seater sofa contained within it, picking up and scattering cushions left, right and centre.

"Then, if you are feeling particularly merciful, you go towards the door and you release the spider into the wilds of London!"

"Sherlock," Molly said her voice quiet. "We really need to talk—"

"Later – where’s the spider? Probably on your light – seeing as you _insist_ on using light bulbs that will of course attract insects,” Sherlock muttered, clambering onto her bed, reaching up towards the flowery lampshade. Molly frowned.

"Light bulbs? What are you talking about?"

"You have a spider – you called me – I’m getting rid of it."

"Okay, even for you, this is weird." She gave a sigh and stepped forward. "Sherlock, have you ever – dreamed about someone you shouldn’t have dreamed about?"

"Molly, if you called me at 3 in the morning in order to have philosophical discussions about dreams—"

"I didn’t call you, Sherlock."

* * *

John’s brows furrowed. “Wait – you _didn’t_ call her?”

"Apparently not."

"Oh." John tilted his head, thinking. "Have you been – spending a lot of time with her lately?"

"No."

"You’ve been thinking of her then," Lestrade suggested and Sherlock began to shake his head, but immediately paused.

"Define ‘thinking’."

"So you _have_?”

"A little bit."

* * *

Sherlock could practically feel the rush of blood to his cheeks and to the tips of his ears. Molly glanced downwards, biting at her bottom lip.

"So there was no phone call."

"No. I think – I think you were dreaming I’d phoned you, Sherlock."

He swallowed. “Well, the phone call – _felt_ very real.”

"You last phoned me at five o’clock, just as I was leaving work. You wanted me to drop off a foot to you, remember? I couldn’t because I had a – thing. Why were you dreaming of me anyway?" She was looking at him again, and he found that, for the life of him, he couldn’t look at her.

“I, uh,” he gave a slight clearing of his throat and rubbed at the back of his head, “I don’t know.”

It was a good question though, he had to admit. Why, if he was going to dream about Molly, would he dream about her needing help with a spider? He had often heard of men going on about fantasies—mostly sexual in nature, and he’d be lying if he didn’t admit that he’d indulged in one or two himself—but catching a spider? That was such a mundane thing to think about. Utterly, utterly mundane. And in her _bedroom_ , of all places.

“Are you absolutely sure there wasn’t a phone call?”

A smile pushed at the edges of Molly’s mouth. “Pretty sure. Now, do you want to get down from the bed?”

Sherlock gave a nod and feeling decidedly silly, he slowly clambered down from her bed.

* * *

“Well, it’s pretty obvious isn’t it?”

Both John and Sherlock looked to Lestrade, the latter with his eyes narrowed and the former with a distinct look of amusement, almost as if he were daring Lestrade to say what it was he had to say.

“What’s _obvious_?” Sherlock asked, his tone, surprisingly, one of curiosity.

“You wanted to spend time with Molly!” Lestrade said with a grin. “Classic example – you want to see someone but can’t, so your subconscious puts them in your dream.”

“Molly said roughly the same thing.”

* * *

“So – you dreamt that I needed help with a spider?” Her expression was a mixture between amusement and bemusement.

“Yes.”

“Then you – or your subconscious – see me as a sort of – damsel in distress type?”

Sherlock shifted his weight. This was quickly descending into a territory he knew that he, with all his genius, would be unable to navigate. Brushing her hair from her eyes, Molly eyed him.

“Do I – seem like someone who needs rescuing?”

“No! No, no!”

“So what is it then?” Molly said, her smile growing. “Would – would you you say that you like rescuing me?” Sherlock felt his eyes grow wide. A cough escaped his throat. If he said the truth and what they both suspected, he would be exposed; raw. Of course, if he said nothing, it would do nothing but serve to pull the silence of the situation into an all the more awkward context. He let out a heavy, nervous sigh and allowed himself to look at her.

“I – I suppose you could say that. Yes.”

She took a step towards him and pressed a hand to his chest. Her smile was so wide, so genuine, and so warm; he could not help but return it. On tiptoe, she reached and pressed her mouth lightly to his. That was… nice. Better than nice, in fact.

“Good. I like that.”

* * *

John gave a grin as Sherlock finished relaying the story.

“Well,” he said, with pride in his voice, “went to fetch a spider, and you got a girlfriend. Good on you.”


	94. John's Surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: John finds Molly in Sherlock's shirt.

Molly was not prone to the whole idea of “sneaking around”. She never had been; and to be honest, she’d never really had cause. Any family of any boyfriends she might have met were courteous and not so fixed on tradition that they made her sleep in a separate bedroom when she stayed the night, and she’d never been involved in what others might have termed a “secret relationship”.

However, people were always prone to change, and Molly Hooper was no exception. She just supposed that it was funny that it was Sherlock Holmes, a man who had, in the past, not reacted to change all that well, was the cause.

Their relationship had begun swiftly, soon after Moriarty’s great return, with the trigger being a night of conversation and alcohol. They’d both—rather foolishly, admittedly—promised themselves the morning after that it had meant nothing, absolutely nothing at all, to either of them and would be considered a one-time thing. That, of course, soon proved to be a lie when, just a few hours later, Sherlock stormed into the lab at St. Bart’s and caught Molly by the wrist, dragged her to a storage cupboard and proceeded to kiss the breath from her before he told her, in no uncertain terms, that a one-time thing was definitely _not_ what he wanted.

As a result of Moriarty’s comeback, their professional relationship in both the morgue and the lab at St. Bart’s remained largely unchanged whilst their vastly changed personal relationship remained practically a government secret. In fact, Molly and Sherlock became so used to the idea of their relationship being so wrapped up in mystery, that even when Moriarty’s return had been dealt with and they were free to reveal the state of their relationship, they sort of… forgot.

After eight months together however, at least one of them was going to become rather lax about the whole situation.

* * *

The alarm beeped, irritatingly insistent in its tone, the beeps in time with Molly’s elbow, which she currently dug gently against Sherlock’s ribcage. He breathed a groan against her ear and pressed a brief, sleepy kiss to her temple.

"I don’t need to wake up before 9. We agreed."

"But I _do_ ,” Molly hissed, biting back a giggle. “I have a job to go to.”

"Fine," Sherlock grunted as he flung himself away from her and onto his back. "Though I don’t see what’s so much more entertaining about your work than me."

Molly raised an eyebrow at him as she slipped out of the bed.

"Where are my clothes?"

"Washing machine."

She sighed as she scooped his shirt off the floor and shrugged it onto her shoulders. “You’re supposed to take the clothes out of the washing machine, Sherlock – not just leave them.”

"Well, it just looks like you’ll have to stay at the flat today then," Sherlock said, propping himself on his elbows and perhaps it was his smile, but Molly gained the strangest feeling that his ‘mistake’ with the washing machine was far more deliberate than he was willing to admit.

"Alright – I’ve got some holiday time left anyway," she said before she opened his drawers and grabbed a t-shirt and a pair of pyjama bottoms, throwing them in his general direction, flashing him a grin. "But I’m not returning to that bed until you’ve fished out every last piece of laundry – and put it in the dryer."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but obeyed her all the same. Molly shook her head as she watched her now dressed consulting detective leave the bedroom. She would never admit it or tell him outright, but he was, in a number of ways, just like any other man—especially when it came to his libido. Picking up a hairband, she scooped up her hair and scraped it back into a loose bun. Definitely time for some breakfast.

She headed out of the bedroom to be met by the sight of a full washing basket sat atop the kitchen table, but no Sherlock. There was however, one John Watson.

"Molly? I – I was looking for Sherlock – Lestrade called with a case—"

The bathroom door flew open and Sherlock stepped out, a toothbrush sticking out from his mouth, and his eyes narrowed.

"Case? Is it above an 8? And do stop looking at Molly’s legs, John – you’re a married man."

John tore his eyes away from Molly for long enough to raise his eyebrows at Sherlock.

"Uh, it’s a homicide – dismembered body found in a skip just off Hyde Park?"

Sherlock gave a shrug. “Could be interesting. Molly, you’ll have to dry your clothes – that won’t be a,” he looked briefly to John before looking back to Molly, a smile growing on his features, “ _problem_ , will it?”

Molly stifled a giggle and reached up to kiss Sherlock on his cheek. “Not at all.”

"Wonderful." Sherlock dived back into the bedroom, leaving Molly and John alone.

"Sooo – you and Sherlock?"

"Yeah."

"When did it—"

"Eight months ago."

"Oh. Git never told me." John directed a smile at her. "Congratulations – or congratulations to him anyway. Do you want a cup of tea?"

Molly breathed a sigh of relief. “Tea would be lovely. I’ll just uh – get a dressing gown on first.”


	95. Truth or Dare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Sherlolly truth or dare.

There were many ways to approach a broken engagement. Some might have found their way to their best friend’s house, sobbed on the shoulder of said best friend before watching a stream of romantic comedies, all with the intent of bitterly picking holes in the plot. Others may have chosen simply to get dressed up to the nines and head out to a nightclub. All of which were perfectly valid ways of nursing a broken heart.

But how was one to cope with a broken engagement when the heart in question wasn’t at all broken, but was instead rather relieved that the whole ordeal was over?

"I’m the wrong person to ask that question to, Molly," Sherlock said, casually sitting beside her on the sofa and pouring out a second glass of whiskey. "Surely that’s obvious."

"Yeah, well, Meena’s out of town and Mary’s on a date night with John, so you’ll have to do."

Sherlock chuckled as he pressed a whiskey glass into Molly’s hand and watched as she knocked back the golden amber liquid with an astonishing amount of determination and a lick of grace before looking to him.

"Anyway, answer the question. That’s what you’re here for."

Sherlock deftly poured another dose of whiskey into both of their glasses. “Well, logic dictates that you get drunk.”

"Great.” Molly grinned and briefly raised her glass in a mock toast. “That’s exactly what I was planning to do.”

* * *

Molly fell against the sofa with a laugh, watching as Sherlock, stumbling over and against the array of furniture within 221b, vainly attempted to switch on the television. Taking another swig of whiskey, she shook her head and giggled as Sherlock, apparently giving up, sank back onto the sofa and resolved himself to merely glaring at the still blank television, once his friend and now his enemy.

“Okay, okay – forget the movie idea,” she said, still giggling. “Let’s just play a game.”

“That’s childish,” Sherlock muttered, to which Molly poked at his side.

“Oi, I’ve got a broken heart, be nice to me. And if I want to play a game, _then I want to play a game._ ” She leaned closely to him, eyeing him with a glare.

“If you’re trying to threaten me, you’re failing.” With a lopsided smile, Sherlock leaned forward and lightly tapped at her nose. “Entirely badly, I might add.”

“I still want to play a game. How about truth or dare? Always loved playing that when I was a kid.”

Somewhat melodramatically, Sherlock ran his hands over his face. “Oh, you really _are_ childish.”

“No I’m not,” Molly pouted, clumsily shifting her position so she was sat cross-legged on the sofa, facing her drinking companion. Sighing heavily, Sherlock followed her lead until they were sat, swaying lightly with their minds and vision hazy from the alcohol, opposite one another.

“I’ll go first – truth or dare?”

Sherlock gave a sigh. “Truth.”

“Okay.” A devious smile crept across Molly’s face as she leaned forward. Despite the haziness of his own vision, Sherlock was still able to find that her eyes, bright from her drunken state, were particularly lovely. They were always particularly lovely, if he was honest with himself.

“What do you really think of Sally Donovan?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Competent. Now it’s your go – truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Why did you break off your engagement?”

Molly scoffed, gulping back her drink. “That’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s embarrassing, really.”

“It’s not that obvious to me. Well, it is actually – you’re far too clever to actually marry someone who genuinely thinks that _meat dagger_ is a viable solution for a murder.”

“At least he tried!” Molly protested, crinkling her nose. “Anyway, it’s not that. I’m kind of amazed you didn’t guess it already.”

Sherlock leaned closer, his lopsided smile turning teasing. “Maybe I have, and just want to make you admit it out loud.”

“Then you, sir, are an arsehole.”

“And you are being deliberately cagey, which goes completely against the rules of this game.”

Molly rolled her eyes. “ _Fine._ It was you, you dick. You came back being all – gracious and stuff, and well—”

“Well, what?” Sherlock asked, prodding at her knee slightly. Her only reaction to that was to raise an eyebrow.

“That was that. I kind of feel bad for stringing things along as long as I did.” She shook her head lightly, giving a sigh. “But whatever – your go. Truth or dare? Guessing it’ll be truth.”

“You’d be correct.”

“Alright. Tell me something no-one else knows.”

A crook of a smile appeared at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and he shifted closer until they were close enough that if anyone were to enter 221b at that point, they could be forgiven for thinking they had tripped upon a rather private moment.

“I’m glad for the lack of a ring.” Neither of them knew he would, in just a few weeks, repeat the fact in a harsher, decidedly cooler exchange, but at that point, doused with alcohol as she was, Molly only smiled. Her expression only widened when Sherlock spoke again.

“Truth or dare?”

She kept her gaze firmly on his. “Dare.”

“You’re thinking of doing something. Do it.”

Neither of them hesitated. With the smallest of gasps, locking her arms around his neck, his arms wrapped around her waist, she caught her mouth with his.


	96. Observation. (Khan/Molly Hooper)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from tumblr user sgrplum: Simple pleasures. Khan is so focused, he misses seeing the little things.

_You focus so much on the big picture. Do you ever notice, I don’t know, the little things? The world is so big, so vast… It’s so easy to miss things._

In the beginning, he hadn’t been too fond of Miss Molly Hooper’s penchant for chattering. He, after all, liked to work in silence, and she, for the most part, recognised that. Yet she still fell prey to the habit. He often mused the idea that, if she knew of his true identity and his true status, she might not have been so loose-lipped around him.

After a time however, he found himself growing rather used to her chatter, and her odd little, so very human, habits. He found himself looking forward to the times they would share the labs hidden deep within the wells of the Federation headquarters.

He looked forward to them all the more when they entered into a romantic relationship. She was uncharacteristically averse to the idea of calling it a relationship of any kind, preferring to deflect his whispered declarations with a smile, or a pathetic pretence of sleep. Presumably it was out of some worthless worry about her career, but that would all be rather irrelevant once he set his plans in motion.

Yet that stage of their relationship was still merely a thought; he had to bide his time after all. Had to wait for the right moment to strike.

"Don’t you think? John?"

Her question brought him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see her coming out of the kitchen, the waves of her hair scooped up into a messy bun and her skin only covered by a dark satin dressing gown. A very nice ensemble indeed.

His smile must have reflected his internal thoughts of approval, for she blushed and set down her drink, clambering back onto the bed to kneel in front of him. Wordlessly, she cupped at his face and drew him in for a tender, gentle kiss. When she pulled away, she gave a smile and raised an eyebrow.

"Now will you listen to me?"

"I always listen to you."

She gave a sigh, tilting her head slightly. “Do you now? I know you, John — and I know when you’re locked in that mind of yours.”

"Do you know what I was thinking of?"

She shrugged and let her hands slide from his face. “Work probably, knowing you.”

Hearing her comment, he chuckled and took her small, pale wrists in his hands.

"You see, that’s where you’re entirely wrong, Molly." Gently, he took her small, pale hands in his. Lifting them to his mouth, he kissed at her right palm, his eyes locked onto hers which had widened as a result of his ministrations. "I was thinking of you; _seeing_ you actually. Seeing your hands…”

Dropping his gaze, he kissed at her left palm, tracing his mouth down towards her wrist, nipping lightly, smirking at the small gasp that left her.

"Seeing your body…"

He lifted his head, slowly drawing his hands down her arms to slip into the folds of her dressing gown, settling them against her bare waist. Her eyes were practically black now, and her chest heaved with her quickened breaths. Smirk widening, he leaned forward, pulling her closer.

"Seeing your eyes…"

Her eyelids fluttered closed as he pressed his mouth to her temple, her skin warm against his lips. He bent his head, all the while pressing the lightest, briefest, of kisses to her jaw, his hands creeping up towards her breasts, his thumb just stroking the underside. She languidly draped her arms across his shoulders, a silent demand for more. A second laugh, low and affectionate, escaped him as he rolled them over until she was laid out on the bed, him by her side, his fingers tracing against her back and down towards her hips.

"Seeing your lips…" he murmured finally, before he provided her with the one action they both ached for, and captured her mouth in a deep kiss.

"I love you." The words, whispered so softly and so sweetly by her, were a danger Khan knew he must not have involved herself in. Yet she, with little to no effort on her part, made his reply feel like an inconsequential breath on the wind.

"I love you too."

With that, he kissed her again. So strange… that such a simple act, such an easy use of words, had the capacity to cause such complications.


	97. Please Leave a Message. (Drunk!lock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Coupling, again, and the episode "Jane and the Truth Snake" (2x05). TSoT AU.

_Moll-eee… Molly, Molly, Molly… Hooper. I’m supposed to speak now aren’t I? Yes. Molly, John doesn’t believe me; he says I shouldn’t be doing this, but he doesn’t know anything. But he does know that I love you, Molly, so there’s a point. I love you Molly. Your breasts aren’t too small – shut up, John! – and your mouth… your mouth is perfect, Molly. Practically perfect. Why are you engaged again? You shouldn’t be engaged – no, John, wait! Give me the phone, no, it’s mine – give me the – thank you. Sorry Molly – John tried to take my phone away from me, but he’s an idiot. Everyone’s an idiot. Except you. You’re perfect. I lurve you. I do! Tom’s an idiot._

BEEP.

* * *

Sherlock’s head pounded. Vowing never to take another alcoholic drink again, he rolled himself up into his sheets and vaguely managed to sit up; which was a bad decision all around, really. Somehow, by some brutal miracle of either science or nature, the pounding increased. Groaning, he tugged himself up to his feet and shuffled slowly into the kitchen. What exactly had happened to make him feel so bad? The measurements had been perfect. Hadn’t they? He’d planned it all out exactly. Right now, at this particular moment, he should have been feeling somewhat sore in the head, but content overall. So why did he feel as if a brass band orchestra had moved in and made themselves perfectly at home inside his brain?

Sighing, he leaned against the kitchen counter and grabbed at the coffee. True, he was hungry, but he doubted he could stomach any sort of light for the moment, even the false light of the fridge. He blinked and rubbed at his eyes as he switched the kettle on, trying to recount the events of the previous evening. There was… a pub, yes. He could remember that. Nothing untoward had happened at the pub. After that though? A second pub, then a club, maybe? Yes, definitely a club. And some not entirely brilliant dancing. Well, it was unlikely anyone would remember. And arguing. An argument definitely happened. Ash.

Why would he argue about ash of all things? “I _know_ ash,” Sherlock mumbled as he set himself down at the table, slowly taking gulps of his coffee, the bitter taste flooding his mouth. Gradually, the haze that was so prominent over his memories of the previous evening slowly lifted. The King of England—no, they didn’t have a king, what use was that? His fingers, moving over a keypad. His voice. Something about—something about small breasts. Not, not small breasts. Practically perfect.

Sherlock paled. Oh God. Oh no.

Quite rapidly, Sherlock Holmes found himself very much awake and alert. Shooting up to his feet, he sprinted back into his bedroom, grabbed at his coat, discarded on the floor as it was, and rummaged through his pockets. There it was—his phone. His breathing grew hard and his cheeks grew warm as he scrolled through. “Phone” – “Recents” – _MH, mobile._ He didn’t dare look at the date, or the time. It was beyond obvious what had transpired.

Slowly, Sherlock sank into the sofa. His head fell against his hands. He’d called her. He’d actually, genuinely called her, and told her the truth. The horrible, inconvenient truth that she would no doubt be horrified by when she heard it. True, she had loved him once upon a time, but she’d moved on, with _Tom_ , his feelings for her surfacing far too late for him to actually do something about it. He supposed it would not be easy for him to pinpoint exactly when he had begun to see Molly Hooper in a romantic sense. John had described meeting Mary as something of a “lightning bolt”; he’d even compared it to one of his deductions. It was an instantaneous, all-the-pieces-falling-together sort of meeting, so John had said. Molly was not a lightning bolt. No. Falling in love with her—for that’s what he was, in love with her, his drunken state had confessed that outright—had been a far more gradual thing. That night, the night before the fall, the night when he had told how much she counted, was the starting point. He had always appreciated her, but when she had shown, without hesitation, just how much strength she had, that appreciation had slowly, bit by bit, turned into love.

And now she was engaged to be married and he was stuck, unable to say what he wished, but still with the horror of having left a stupid, drunken message on her phone.

He had to fix it, somehow. Perhaps he could—borrow her phone? Delete the message before she saw it. Yes, he could definitely do that, he had a key to her flat, he just had to stand up and—no. Sherlock sank back onto the sofa with a heavy groan. The pounding in his head barely allowed for stumbling movements around his flat; he wouldn’t make it to her flat. Not without vomiting somewhere anyway. Maybe he could just leave another message? Yes, that would have to do. There was no other alternative—not one that he could see anyhow. He pressed the phone to his ear.

“I’m sorry, the person you’ve called is unavailable at the moment; please leave your message after the tone.”

“Molly!” Okay, no, that was far too eager. He cleared his throat. “Molly, I’m – uh – _pretty_ sure I left you a message last night—”

“Ooh-hoo!” The door swung open to reveal Mrs Hudson, tray in her hands. “Morning Sherlock dear! Are you on the phone?”

“Yes, could you—”

“I suppose you’re on the phone to Molly,” Mrs Hudson commented, merrily pouring out tea and blissfully ignorant of the situation at hand.

“Mrs Hudson, please – I’m still on the—”

“So good you managed to finally tell her how you feel,” she said brightly, offering him a cup of tea. “The poor girl – you really should’ve told her earlier Sherlock, I don’t know what’s wrong with you, that boy she’s engaged to looks exactly like you, we can all see it—”

“ _Mrs Hudson!_ ” he snapped finally, causing her to blink. Seeing the phone, she gave a laugh.

“Oh, I’m so sorry dear! I thought you’d hung up! Never mind – just send her another quick message explaining everything; it’ll work out in the end.”

Giving him a smile, she departed from the flat and as the door slammed, Sherlock numbly pressed his thumb against the End Call button, where it had hovered all throughout Mrs Hudson’s diatribe. So not only did he now have his drunken ramblings stuck on Molly’s phone, but he also had the chattering of Mrs Hudson. How so very bloody wonderful. Reluctantly, he rang up again. Above him, there came the thud of a door as John woke, followed by the hollow thud of his footsteps on the stairs.

“—Please leave your message after the tone.”

“Molly, I presume that by the time you’ve received my last – _two_ – messages, you’ll be wondering what on Earth is going on. Well, first I’d like to clarify that I am—”

“You still intent on telling Molly you love her then?”

“Oh bloody hell!” Hanging up, Sherlock let the phone fall to the floor with a clatter.

John, having settled into his armchair with a cup of coffee and a newspaper, looked up from whatever article he was reading and blinked.

“I take that as a no?”

Sherlock sighed and hung up, looking to John with a false smile.

“I was ringing Molly to tell her I wasn’t in love with her, actually.”

“Ah. The old ‘I was drunk and didn’t mean it’ phone call. Been there – and it’s never worked.”

“Yes, thank you for your opinion,” Sherlock said irritably, rising from the sofa with a wince and a touch to his temple before he settled into his armchair. John watched him, not bothering to hide his amusement.

“What are you going to do?”

“There’s only one thing I can do.”

“Which is…?”

“Buy her a new phone.”

John regarded him with one of his trademark are-you-joking looks, his gaze following as Sherlock got up and advanced towards his bedroom. “Wow. You can’t just – I don’t know – _talk_ to her?!”

The answer to that came with a quick slam of Sherlock’s bedroom door.

* * *

Much later on, with a light chewing at his bottom lip, Sherlock knocked on the door to Molly’s flat. Despite John’s protestations, he couldn’t “just talk” to her. Talking would mean having to explain himself; and having to explain would mean having to tell her, which was exactly what he was attempting to avoid. So, feeling considerably lighter in pocket and with his heart in his mouth, he knocked for a second time. The door swung open, but Molly did not greet him with her usual cheer but instead a definite frown of confusion. So she hadn’t checked her messages yet. That was… good. Yes, good.

“Sherlock?” She wrinkled her nose a little. “What are you doing here?”

Only Molly Hooper could ask an innocuous question such as that and leave him speechless. Dropping his gaze, he turned the box over in his hands.

“Um—”

The ringing of a phone, ironically, was what saved him. Relief flooding through him, he delved into his coat pocket and pressed his phone to his ear.

“Brother mine,” Mycroft’s voice was icy. “It would be wise of you to change your contact entries to something else other than initials.”

Sherlock could practically feel his ears go pink with the realisation of his mistake. Quietly, he drew the phone away from his ear and avoiding all eye contact with Molly, he checked the date on the incriminating evidence of _MH, mobile_. 19/07/2013. Three days before. Definitely not last night. Molly, patient as ever, raised her eyebrows at him in some silent demand for an explanation. Somewhat sheepishly, he shoved the box at her.

“Wedding present,” he mumbled quickly before he turned on his heels and departed, leaving Molly to stand there, a new phone in one hand, Toby in the other and her mind thoroughly confused.

* * *

Wedding present? Sherlock Holmes, getting her a wedding present? She knew they were friends, but they definitely weren’t at wedding present stage. Were they? Perhaps they were. A phone was a strange present though. No-one ever bought someone a phone in celebration of their wedding, which was a pity, because a phone was vastly more useful than anything resembling a soup terrine or a cutlery set. Pulling her dressing gown tighter around herself, she languidly pressed the Messages button on her house phone.

“Sunday, 10:45pm.” Molly barely listened to the following beep as she curled up on her sofa and examined the box in her hands. It was a pretty expensive phone too.

“Moll-eee.” Sherlock’s voice, low and slurring, echoed from the speaker. “Molly, Molly, Molly… Hooper. I’m supposed to speak now, aren’t I? Yes. Molly, John doesn’t believe me; he says I shouldn’t be doing this…”

* * *

**_A good few hours earlier._ **

“Molly.” Curled up against the stairs as he was, her name came out as more of a demand. Sherlock craned his neck up. “Molly!”

“She’s not here you idiot,” John grumbled, his eyelids fluttering closed in a vain attempt to doze and escape the fact that the patterned wallpaper was swaying and circling in front of his eyes. Beside him, Sherlock grunted. With effort, he pulled himself up to a sitting position.

“Where is she?”

John opened one eye. “Why are you suddenly so fixated on Molly? She won’t give you any body parts, not at this hour.”

“I don’t want body parts!” Sherlock said, with his tone incredulous. “I want her.”

John let out a laugh, opening his other eye. “What, are you in – _lurve_ – with her or something?”

Sherlock made a face.

“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” He began to rummage in his pockets, muttering to himself. “Where’s my phone? Aha!”

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing? And since when have you been in love with Molly?”

“None of your business! MH – what? No battery? Hmph. 'll have to charge it. But... in the meantime...” Sherlock threw out a hand. “John, your phone.”

John vehemently shook his head. “Uh, no! No way. If you’re planning what I think you’re planning, then _nooo_.”

Sherlock laughed. “Then you shouldn’t make it so incredibly obvious where it is.”

Before John could react, he reached forward, plucking the phone from John’s jacket pocket and began to clumsily scroll through the list of contacts. When the word “Home”, followed by Molly’s name jumped out at him, he grinned. There was no way, absolutely no way that this could possibly go wrong.


	98. I Wish... (Labyrinth AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A birthday fic for startraveller776, combining my love (Sherlolly) and her love (Labyrinth).

The summer had gone on for far, far too long. The air was sticky with the pressure of the heat and the wind, little and brief as it was, gave no relief. They promised the heat would abate; promised that soon the leaves would be tinged with the orange promise of autumn.

Yet as the month stretched into September, their promises went unfulfilled. The air thickened, and the sun’s vicious gaze remained and dried the earth until the grass was nothing but a dried husk on which tired limbs stepped.

Molly Hooper, at that point only a few days away from her 21st birthday, sat in the shade and rubbed her aching eyelids, her book open on her lap and so far, neglected. With a sigh, she sat against the tree and picked at her book, the sweat of her fingers touching against the yellowed pages.

“Give me the child,” she murmured, but the words danced in front of her, her exhaustion still hung over her. She continued. “Through dangers untold—”

The hoot of an owl was her distraction. She gazed up to find, nestled among the trees, a snow white creature, his feathers flecked with black—and it was a most beautiful example of the breed. Her dimples deepened as she smiled and got to her feet, watching the creature. The words of the book seemed to transfer from the page to the tip of her tongue, her memory seared with them.

“Through dangers untold, and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the Goblin City to take back the child you have stolen.”

The owl seemed to hear her. Its feathers ruffled as it registered the melodic, playful tones of her voice.

“For my will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom is as great. You—”

She stopped. What was the line? The line she could never remember. It was there, stuck to the tip of her tongue but it refused to be spoken. She would have to read it from the book. With a sigh, she scooped her book up from the ground and scanned the words. Ah, there it was.

“You have no power over me.”

A crack of thunder sounded, giving her cause her to look up and a smile to grow across her features. Usually Molly did not receive rain with such overtures of joy, but after the dryness of the heat, to feel the cool relief of droplets against her skin was a boon. Her smile however, soon fell as, in the distance, the town clock chimed. Seven o’clock! Quickly, rain hitting her skin and with her book in her hands, she ran across the fields. She did not notice the owl, that snowy white owl that had caught her attention so vividly only a few moments before, watch her as she ran.

* * *

Soaked, she burst through the front door of her childhood home and was met with the fierce scowl of her stepmother. Twice widowed by the time she had turned forty, she was a creature of whim of a somewhat isolated personality and a short temper. When Molly entered, she gave a heavy sigh.

“I told you to be here at half six, not seven, Molly!”

“I know, I’m sorry, I—”

Her stepmother waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter – you’ll need to babysit Toby for me – I’m going to be out all evening – and I know it’s horrible to ask a twenty year old to babysit, but it’s something I just can’t get out of—”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll – I’ll look after him,” Molly said with a smile. “I’m sure it won’t be that bad.”

On cue, a shrieking wail sounded from upstairs, causing her stepmother to sigh and give an apologetic smile as she hitched her handbag onto her shoulder.

“I’ve fed him, and put him in his cot. There’s milk in the kitchen for him if he wakes at all tonight. You just need to give him a story and he’ll no doubt fall right asleep.” Pausing in her hurry, she smiled and stepped towards Molly, cupping gently at her cheek. “You’ll be okay, won’t you?”

Another wail.

“Of course I will,” Molly said over the noise.

“Are you sure? Because I know you’ve had a hard time with university, and I just don’t want—”

“To impose on me, I know. Don’t worry about it, I’ll be fine.” She just had to look after a screaming baby as well, that was all.

“I’ll be back for breakfast,” her stepmother assured her and she gave her a brief kiss on her cheek before she departed, closing the door behind her. Molly gave a sigh and traipsed upstairs, following the sound of the wail. True, she hadn’t exactly planned to spend her first night off in weeks as a babysitter to her half-brother, but she hadn’t made other plans, and it gave her a chance to catch on some well-needed sleep. Overall really, babysitting was a win-win situation.

* * *

When she stepped inside the nursery, the previous theory of babysitting being a win-win situation soon washed away, especially when she saw her brother. Toby was stood up in his cot, his cheeks red with the effort of his wailing and crying. Tilting her head at him, Molly stepped forward and knelt beside his cot. It would help if she actually knew how to babysit a child, or even what to do with them. She loved her baby brother, of course she did, but babies were so _unreadable,_ unlike adults. Adults she could observe. Babies just cried.

“Okay – Mum says I should give you a story – would you like that?”

Toby only cried harder, stretching out his arms towards her. Ah—so that was what he wanted. A cuddle! Thunder rumbled outside the window and the rain continued to pour down as Molly stood and scooped her half-brother into her arms, rocking him slightly as she’d seen her stepmother do hundreds of times. That always seemed to calm him whenever she had done it; or at least, it had made him laugh. Now though, with the storm raging so fiercely outside, it seemed to only exacerbate his crying.

“Come on Toby, stop crying!” Molly said brightly and she gave a grin, but the only response she got was yet more crying. Did a baby even have the capacity to cry this much? Did they have that much water contained within those small, tiny bodies of theirs? Her smile fading, Molly fixed him with a fierce stare. “If you don’t stop crying, I’ll… I’ll tell you all about the goblins and their King!”

Perhaps threatening her baby brother with her favourite childhood story wasn’t the best idea she would ever have, but it was the best she could’ve hoped for at that moment. “I’ll tell you how the Goblin King lived his life forever in love with the mortal princess he could never have; how he obeyed her every wish – even when she wished for him to get rid of her silly little brother, who never stopped complaining and who never stopped crying. Would you like that?”

As if in response to her threat, the crying abated to a level of soft whimpering, and Molly felt herself smile as Toby looked to her, his blue eyes wide with innocent worry. She held him closer.

“Oh, I don’t suppose you’re all bad.” Moving back to his cot, she gently kissed at his head. “If you keep quiet for the night and don’t cry anymore, I won’t let the Goblin King take you, okay?”

Toby’s grimace lightened into a laugh and a grin as she put him back into his cot and pulled his blankets over him, tucking his teddy bear against his side.

“There now,” she murmured, watching as Toby’s eyelids fluttered closed. “All better. Sleep tight.”

Standing up, she departed from the nursery and switched off the light. Maybe now she could get some sleep and nurse what felt like the beginnings of a large and rather severe headache.

* * *

No sooner than she had stepped out of the door however, the crying began again. Molly rolled her eyes, turned on her heels and stalked back inside, switching on the light to find Toby once again stood up in his cot, cheeks once more turning a deep shade of red as tears streamed down his face.

“Well what do you want?” Molly asked with a huff, Toby’s cries growing louder. “You’ve been fed, you’ve been changed, I’ve given you a story – oh, God, _please_ _stop crying!_ ”

Giving another sigh, she grabbed at him and swung him out of the cot and back into her arms.

“Surely you’ve never been _this_ belligerent before. What is it, hmm? The storm? Is the storm scaring you or something? Well you shouldn’t be scared! It’s just thunder! And a bit of lightning – but still! Oh come on Toby, please don’t be scared!” She was pleading now. Actually pleading with a baby. If this was what babysitting or any kind of child care usually involved, she wasn’t touching either of those particular career paths with a small stick, let alone a barge pole. She cuddled him close and gently patted at his back in an attempt to comfort him, despite the fact that the proximity of his cries to her eardrums almost made them burst.

“The mortal princess wouldn’t have had to deal with this, would she?” Molly said to no-one in particular. “No, she would just have to go to the Goblin King and it would all be sorted out, just like that. No screaming babies to look after.”

Drawing Toby away from her chest, she placed back into the cot for a second time and pulled the covers over him. Maybe he just needed to cry for a bit before he slept. If that was the case, she’d have to just put up with it for the time being—more was the pity. She rubbed at her temples briefly as she stepped towards the nursery door, pausing at the light.

“I wish the goblins would come and take you away,” she muttered, flicking off the light switch and shutting the door behind her. “Maybe _they_ can stop you crying.”

The silence was what caused her to start. Well, truth be told, it wasn’t the silence itself—which was, really, quite the blessed relief—but the nature of it which caught her attention. It was too still, too sudden. Narrowing her eyes, she opened the nursery door and peeked inside.

“Toby?”

Still nothing more than silence. She swallowed slightly, tucking her hair behind her ear as she stepped forward. Her pace quickened when she spied, within the cot, nothing more than blankets, sheets and an abandoned teddy bear. She repeated his name, panicked.

“ _Toby!_ ” Racing forward now, she searched fruitlessly through the pile of blankets. “Oh no – Toby!”

A shadow, falling across the empty cot, caused her hands to still. Her breathing slow, she turned her head, looking up. The figure, clad in black, his dark curls falling against his forehead and settling against the nape of his neck, only raised an eyebrow on seeing her distress.

“Hello Molly. Do you know who I am?”

“The Goblin King.”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug, stepping forward. “Some call me that. I’d much prefer it if you referred to me by my true name: Sherlock.”

“What have you done with my brother? I want him back.”

“No, you wanted him taken away. I heard you quite clearly.” He loomed over her now, his blue eyes cruel. Molly took a stumbling step back, her fingers clutching against the side of the cot where her brother had once laid. He followed her, circling her, the cruelty of his gaze never fading, never dying.

“I didn’t mean it.”

“Did you not? You sounded _very_ sure. ‘I wish the goblins would come and take you away.’” His subsequent grin was wicked and he leaned slightly towards her. “I hear and remember every word you say, Molly Hooper. Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying. I want my brother back.”

He tilted his head, as if in thought. “And how will you get him back? I don’t give into demands, Molly.”

“I don’t care. I want you to tell me where he is,” she said, with her tone one of determination.

“Do you truly want to know where he is? Take a look out of your window.”

Reluctantly, she obeyed him and found not the rainy skyline of suburban London but a labyrinth, spread over a vast landscape, stretching out into the distance, towards a large stone fortress. She stepped forward, the enormity of the task ahead of her plain to see.

“Like it?”

Turning, she saw Sherlock, now stood behind her with his hands crossed behind his back. Gnarled trees twisted into impossible shapes surrounded the both of them. She took a breath as he moved towards her.

“You see before you my labyrinth. If you can beat it in, let’s say, twelve – no, thirteen – hours, I’ll gladly give you your brother back.”

“Thirteen hours?” She gazed out at the labyrinth. Paths twisted and crossed over one another, all clearly designed to lead people into confusion and other, far less pleasant fates. The crunch of leaves sounded underfoot and she could not help but flinch as she felt Sherlock’s breath, warm against her neck.

“Well?” he asked lightly. “Do you think you could do it? Can you solve the labyrinth?”

The answer came out in a breath. “Yes.”

“I do hope you can.” His gloved fingers traced against her neck as he scooped her hair off her neck and around her shoulder. “You have thirteen hours, Miss Hooper. Time is short – I suggest you don’t waste one second.”


	99. Somewhat Skewed Priorities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Sherlock comes home to find Molly in a very provocative pose, waiting for him. However, what she didn't expect was to find Lestrade and John coming in after her husband...

One button? Two, three? Molly’s fingers fumbled over the coat. Perhaps none at all. She bit back a giggle. Yes, definitely no buttons. Best for access after all. Holding the coat tight around her naked body, she ruffled her hair out over her shoulders and clambered quickly onto her husband’s armchair. She perched on top of it, pressing her hands flat against the cool leather.

She busied herself as muffled footsteps on the staircase sounded. Crossing her legs and drawing her hand away from the coat to let her bare skin be exposed, she leant back slightly. It was not often that she was able to surprise Sherlock Holmes. She was most certainly going to make the best of it.

Her smile grew when she saw the door open. Her husband stepped inside. She laughed as his eyes grew in size. His eyebrows rose as he trailed his gaze over her presented form.

"Molly…"

"I – uh – found one of your spare coats lying around." She demurely uncrossed her legs. She gave her most charming smile. "Thought it might need a little bit of well, airing."

He said nothing. She tilted her head.

"You don’t mind, do you?" she asked sweetly.

He stormed forward and grabbed her by her waist. Pulling her up to her feet, he kissed her fiercely, feverishly. Molly moaned into his mouth, hooking her arms around his neck. A smile came to her. If this was the sort of reaction she got when she surprised her husband, she had to do it far more often. She felt him tighten the grip he had on her waist. He lifted her off her feet, grinning at her surprised yelp. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he knelt, gently settling her on the floor before the fireplace.

Sherlock continued to drink her in, drawing his hands over her thighs and her stomach. A sinful smile crept onto his lips. He reached up, tracing his thumb against her cheek and over her bottom lip. Obediently, Molly took his thumb into her mouth and swirled her tongue expertly over it. He let out a half-moan, half-grunt and she grinned. In retaliation, he kissed her again, tugging lightly at her hair. Her hands threaded underneath his armpits, clasping at his back, urging him closer.

"Don’t mind us then."

“ _Jesus Christ!_ " Molly screamed, pulling the coat tightly around her body. "Sherlock! What the hell are—"

"Sherlock," John said quickly, "he said he needed to talk to us about the case—"

"Said it was important," Lestrade said, clearly trying not to laugh. Molly glared up at her husband and smacked him lightly on the arm.

"You could’ve said something!"

Shrugging, Sherlock gave a grin and arched his eyebrows. “Sorry, I must have – forgotten.”

He was not as troubled by the presence of John and Lestrade as his wife was. Molly sighed. That was what she got for marrying a man with an exhibitionist streak. She craned her neck up to look at the two intruders.

"How – _much_ – did you two see?”

Lestrade shrugged, an amused glint in his eye. “Literally just arrived. Saw nothing.”

"Except for you two snogging like bloody teenagers," John muttered.

"Mm. See, Molly? No dignity lost." Still smiling, Sherlock tapped his finger to her nose. He looked up at John and Lestrade. "Now, if you two don’t mind departing? Normally I would tolerate you staying and chatting about the case, but right now, I have got a wife to fuck."

"SHERLOCK!"


	100. Morning Rush. (The Proposal AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a prompt fill.

Molly decided that she hated power cuts. Power cuts were the reason her alarm had decided to reset itself to default setting; power cuts were the reason she had slept in 45 minutes over her usual wake up time. Power cuts were the reason she was now careening into the nearest Starbucks, her forehead slick with sweat.

Heat waves. That was another thing she hated. Heat waves and power cuts. Just when did London get so warm? Perhaps it had always been this warm; but it didn’t matter. She still managed to careen into Starbucks, panting heavily, only to be greeted by the genial smile of the barista, Tom, who had two coffee cups already in hand.

“Two regular lattes for you Molls,” he said brightly and if Molly hadn’t been in such a rush, she might’ve seen the practically lustful approval with which he regarded her. Instead, Molly threw a smile at him over her shoulder as she dived back out of the coffee shop and across the street, her bag banging against her hip as she weaved in and out of the traffic. She glanced quickly at her watch as the glossy, modern building that she had grown to hate loomed up in front of her. 8:45, she could still make it. If she hurried.

Accelerating her speed, she sprinted into the building, through the crowds of co-workers and non-co-workers and somehow managed to miraculously jump into the last remaining lift. Meena gave her a look as the doors slid shut.

“Cutting it a little fine.”

“I know, I know!” Molly said brightly as she jogged on the spot, watching the numbers change as the lift achingly slowly made its way up the floors. Finally, after what was probably 30 seconds but felt like 30 years, the lift doors pinged open and Molly quickly darted out of the lift to be met by the clean, modern-edged offices of Baker & Son Books.

Some people were, like her, hurriedly filing into and past the main office doors; others were already at their desks, drinking coffee and eating snacks as they chattered easily to their colleagues. Hurrying towards her desk, Molly nodded quickly at every greeting made to her and smiled when people asked her how she was before she settled into her chair and switched on her computer. The time: 8:50. She had to grin to herself as she kicked off her flat heeled pumps and switched to a pair of black high heels. Ten minutes in what was usually a twenty minute journey. That had to be some kind of a record.

With a small sigh, she shrugged off her jacket, rolled up her sleeves, drew her hair from its ponytail and brushed her fingers through it quickly in a vague attempt at looking presentable. A beep from her computer monitor caused her to turn her head. Her good mood instantly deflated.

IM: OFFICE <B&SonBooks>  
FROM: SDonovan  
TO: ALL

_He’s here, minus 5, 10. Battle stations!_

In less than five minutes, he was going to be in the office, waiting for coffee, his to-do list and the latest submissions, in less than five minutes. And his mood was a 10. Maximum irritancy level. Okay. So that made her morning a little more difficult.

Around her, colleagues tucked away magazines into the back of in-trays, dumped rubbish into bins, brushed crumbs off keyboards, sat at desks, closed internet sites and generally tried to look competent and busy. Another bleep sounded on Molly’s monitor as she stood.

IM: OFFICE<B&SonBooks>  
From: MStamford  
To: ALL

_Looks v. annoyed. Minus 2._

“Very helpful,” Molly muttered quickly as she made a grab for the two coffees and she moved away from her desk, not quite looking where she was going.

Warm coffee immediately spilled down her front, soaking her. The lackey she had bumped into, a nervy looking man with a stack of mail wedged under his arm, immediately babbled out an apology.

“Go, Jesus, just go!” she urged, dismissing him and his apologies with a wave. “It’s fine, it’s fine! I forgive you, you don’t need to apologise—”

As the man hurried on through the office, Molly deftly popped open the buttons of her shirt—earning one rather obnoxious wolf whistle in the process—and pulled it off her shoulders to reveal a pristine white string vest. Shoving the coffee stained shirt under her desk, she picked up her jacket and shrugged it on. If she was honest, this was definitely one of the few times she was thankful for women’s fashion. In an emergency, layers were a godsend.

Grabbing at the second coffee cup and the files that sat waiting on her desk, she—looking where she was going this time—headed straight into the office opposite her, the office that she had very often found herself directing rude gestures at more than once in her career. Adjusting the name on the door a little to the left, just the way he liked it, she pushed the door open and stepped through.

Not a moment later, the door swung open again and Sherlock Holmes stepped through, his phone glued to the palm of his hand as always and his coat tails flapping.

“Morning,” Molly said brightly, but as usual, he barely seemed to register her and instead moved straight past her towards his desk, not even pausing when he took the coffee cup from her hand. As he settled back into his chair, she stepped forward.

“You have a conference call in 30 minutes, and a staff meeting at 9 o’clock.”

“Cancel the call – it’s no longer needed – and push the meeting to tomorrow, it’s better for all concerned.”

“Okay. And Nigel wants you to call Philip to see if he’ll reconsider signing—”

“I already have,” Sherlock said shortly. “A courier is now on their way to his house in Kensington to sign a six book deal with him, including the one he has already written. You might need to contact Public Relations and see if they wish to talk to him about promotion of the imminent new book release. Anything else?”

Molly blinked in surprise. “Not at the moment.”

Sherlock tilted his head to aim a severe look at her. “Have you checked?”

“Uh – no. I’ll – just go do that,” she said quietly, and she turned on her heel to depart when Sherlock’s voice caused her to stop.

“Miss Hooper,” he asked, his voice almost a drawl. “Who exactly is Tom?”

It was almost painful, to hear the smug amusement in his voice. Sucking in a breath and the urge to punch him, she turned back to face him, a tight smile on her features. Sherlock leaned back in his chair, legs crossed.

“And why should I call him?”

He slowly turned the cup in his hand until the words “ _Call Me! Tom xxx_ ” were in full view for the both of them to see. Molly cleared her throat slightly, but Sherlock managed to speak before her.

“Three kisses say it’s a romantic attachment. Pretty forward of the man – I’ve never met him, after all.”

“Those kisses – that was originally my cup.” Molly gave a small awkward nod. “Yeah – my cup.”

His smug smirk widened as he carefully and slowly made to sip at the coffee. He raised his eyebrows in a laconic gesture of surprise.

“Black, two sugars. Isn’t your coffee order usually milk with three sugars?”

As well as power cuts and heat waves, she hated Sherlock Holmes’ seemingly endless capacity for stupid facts, such as her coffee order.

“Yes,” she said tightly.

“Oh. And what caused this change of order, precisely?”

“Definitely not the fact that I was terrified about spilling your coffee and picked up the technique of getting the same coffee after an impulsive late night session on Google once.”

“Hm. Definitely not.”

If Molly was going to reply, it was swiftly cut off by the sharp sound of Sherlock’s office phone ringing. He however, made no attempt to answer the call but continued to lean back in his chair and drink his coffee, watching intently as she gave an irritated sigh and made to answer the phone, briefly sticking her tongue out at him as she picked it up.

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes’ office, Molly Hooper speaking. How may I help? Oh, Bob. Hi.”

On hearing Bob’s name mentioned, Sherlock gave an implicit nod and a small wave of his hand before he stood to finally rid himself of his Belstaff and scarf. Molly continued speaking.

“Yes, we’ll be right over. Thanks, bye.” Slamming the phone down, she aimed a look at Sherlock. “And why are we heading over to Bob’s office?”

Sherlock didn’t even need to say it. A well-timed glance was more than enough to tell Molly what was about to happen.

“Are you sure?” she asked, following on as Sherlock made his way of the office and down past the rows of office cubicles. “I mean, Bob is—”

“Incompetent,” Sherlock said, nimbly adjusting the cuffs of his collar.

“But he’s been with the company for years.”

“Don’t argue with me Miss Hooper, it’s never worked out well for you in the past.”

“Neither has agreeing with you,” Molly muttered, to which Sherlock chuckled.

“True – and remember, you’re to be silent as the grave and say nothing. No condolences, no sympathising.” He stopped just outside Bob’s office door, turning to face her. “In fact, it’d be best if you just stayed out here.”

“No, you know you need someone to control you.”

“And how will you do that when you can’t say anything?”

Molly smiled thinly. “A well-timed kick to the shins can work wonders.”

“You’re a positively awful assistant, Miss Hooper.”

“Executive assistant,” Molly said lightly, eyeing Sherlock with a grin on her lips. Reciprocating the smile, he stepped through the door. Bob Frankland, a grey-haired man who oozed charm and menace in equal measure, glanced up as Molly shut the door behind her and gave a falsely genial grin.

“Sherlock! And Miss Hooper, his ever faithful lap dog. What can I do for you today?”

At his words, Molly bowed her head and swallowed. Being an assistant—even an executive one—wasn’t a perfectly glamorous job, nor was it the most highly regarded job, but she was proud of the fact that she was at least efficient with her duties. Clearly some people didn’t think the same way.

She lifted her head to see Sherlock staring at Bob, considering him. His eyes briefly flicked towards Molly before they settled on an antique cabinet.

“New?” he asked, to which Bob gave a laugh.

“Built in the 1800s but new to my office. Blame my wife, she recommended I buy it—”

“Bob, you’re fired.”

“What?”

Sherlock gave a small shrug. “You told me you'd spoken to Philip and that he had not reconsidered signing with us. So imagine my surprise when I rang Philip myself this morning to find that you had never once made contact with him, let alone spoke to him.”

“I, I—”

“You will be given two months paid leave to find another job – if you find that difficult, you can speak to my _lap dog_ Miss Hooper here, and she'll be more than efficient in finding a job for you—and once you have acquired that new job, you can tell everyone you resigned.”

“Why?”

“Well, because people like to keep up appearances, though I personally don’t quite understand the reason for it—”

“No – _no_ – why are you firing me?”

“It’d be best for your self-esteem not to ask,” Sherlock said with a brief, wide and utterly superficial grin and he swept quickly from the office, leaving Molly to scuttle on behind him.

“How does he look?”

Molly glanced over her shoulder. “Pacing, getting quicker – rubbing back of head – _hard_ – muttering to himself. In short, angry.”

“Heading this way?”

“Beginning to.”

“Hm. Seems he’s determined to make a fool of himself,” Sherlock said and he turned on his heel as Bob, features flushed red, stormed from his office. A few of the workers looked up from their respective cubicles. Others, used to this sort of spectacle, merely continued on working.

“How dare you?!” Bob said his voice loud. “I have been with this company for 12 years, far longer than you! _You_ cannot fire _me!_ ”

“Err, actually, I can. It’s kind of the perk of my job.”

“A _perk?_ So that’s what you’re doing? You’re firing me because you’re bored?”

“No, I’m firing you because you’re lazy, wildly incompetent and since I joined the company, our annual sales have gone up by 200%. You have barely put in 40% of those sales.” Sherlock continued. “You still have your two months to find a new position, but I want you to move your things out of your office by the end of this morning. Good day.”

An awful silence fell over the rows of cubicles. Bob looked catatonic, as if he could've been knocked over with a single soft breath.

“I’ll get security to help you with the office stuff,” Molly offered, almost helplessly, but Bob, shaking his head, scoffed and stormed into his office. He slammed the door behind him. The silence broke into gossip and quick glances among the cubicles. Molly hurried back down towards Sherlock's office. She poked her head around his door, where he immediately spoke, not looking away from his computer.

“It was lucky you were there, you know.”

Molly gave a laugh, stepping inside. “Really?" She shut the door behind her and perched on the edge of Sherlock's desk. "I thought I was just acting as a prop.”

Sherlock glanced up at her, scanning her, before he looked back to his computer. “If you weren’t there, it’s more than likely that I would’ve revealed not only Bob’s incompetence but also his penchant for excessive gambling.”

Molly shrugged, flipping through her notebook. “Oh, well – don’t want to completely humiliate the man.”

“Yes.” Sherlock turned his head. “By the way, you haven’t got anything planned for the weekend, have you?”

Anyone else might’ve stiffened and awkwardly asked what he meant by such a comment, but after six years, Molly had grown more than used to her employer’s blunt use of language. She settled her notebook into her lap and stood up.

“Uh, kind of – I’ve got this family thing—”

“Cancel it. I need you to go over all of Bob’s old files and manuscripts.”

“Um—”

“That’s an order.”

“Fine.”

Molly shut the door behind her and moved slowly over to her cubicle, sinking down into the comfortable, cool leather. She dropped her notebook on the desk, sliding her arms against her thighs, closing her eyes. She leaned her head back against the chair's headrest. Just five seconds of sleep, that was all she needed, just five seconds…

A ringing caused her to open her eyes again, almost immediately. Blearily, she made a grab for the phone and brought it to her ear.

“Mr Holmes’ office, Molly Hooper speaking, how may I help?”

“Molly, dear! It’s so nice to hear your voice again.”

“Oh, Mum. Hi.” Straightening up in her chair, Molly rubbed at her eyes. “How are you? Can we make this quick? Only, I can’t really talk to family at work…”

“Of course,” came the happy agreement. Molly hesitated to think how quickly that happy attitude would last when she relayed her latest bout of good news. Her mother continued to chatter. “I talked to your grandmother this morning, and oh, but she’s delighted to hear that you’ll be coming up—”

“Actually, Mum, uh,” Molly gently pressed her palm to her forehead. “I – I’ve – I kind of won’t be coming down this weekend.”

“ _What?!_ ” The ferocity of her mother’s shout almost had the phone leaping out of Molly’s hands.

“I know, I’m sorry, it’s Sherlock – I – he’s making me work the weekend, we’ve got a very busy week ahead in the office you see, and I’m sorry but,” Sherlock heading out of his office and straight towards her desk caused her to look up, “we take all submissions at Baker & Son Books very seriously and—”

“Molly?” Her mother demanded. “What the hell are you talking about? I want to know why you think—”

“—we will get back to you as soon as possible.”

Sherlock blinked once as she hung up and regarded her briefly.

“Your family, I take it?”

Molly sighed. “Yes.”

“How often do they tell you to quit?”

“Surprisingly rarely.”


	101. I'm Your Goddamn Partner! (Indiana Jones AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just because.

“She’ll be there, you know," he says coolly, flipping through his newspaper. "She’s made _quite_ the home there.”

“How does that affect me?”

Mycroft sighs, eyeing his younger brother. “A woman doesn’t forget.”

* * *

She gazes at the amber liquid, in its too small glass, and squints. She must be swaying a little, for the braying around her only grows in volume, and the jangle of coins and rustle of notes being exchanged is ringing in her ears.

With effort, she brings the glass closer to her lips. Her opponent, a fat, red-faced man with practically frazzled hair, grins at her and happily shakes his head. So he doesn’t believe she can do it? She smiles straight back at him. Sure she can.

Tightening her grip on the glass, she bends her head back and knocks the amber liquid right down her throat.

The effect shoots straight to her head, and she blinks, bringing her head down to look back at the blurred shape of her opponent. Overlapping chatter sounds, and more notes are exchanged between hands as she presses the glass to her forehead, her movements heavy. They think she’s down; they think she is out. An offended bark of a word trips from out underneath her tongue, and the crowd around her stills, watching and waiting.

She holds out her arm, twirls the empty shot glass between her fingers and ceremoniously drops it, upside down, onto the wooden table. Crossing her arms over her chest and leaning forward on the table, she languidly raises an eyebrow at her opponent, whose smile quickly drops. With tentative, shaking fingers, he reaches forward and tries to grasp the full shot glass that has been placed in front of him. Jeering calls of encouragement come forth as he slowly drinks from the shot glass, people telling him he can do it, he can beat her; _of course_ he can beat her. She’s just a slip of a thing! Molly simply waits. Sure enough, her opponent, still with his fingers wrapped around the shot glass begins to sway and he gently topples backwards onto the floor with a definite _thud._

* * *

Leaning against the bar, Molly listens to the genial chatter of the patrons all slowly making their way out into the cold outside as she, with a smaller, but no less happy, smile on her lips, counts out the money in her hands.

“Hello Molly.”

His shadow looms over her in the low light and she whips around, eyes widening. The shock that comes with hearing _that_ voice again, that low baritone, is almost akin to a lightning bolt, touching at her heart and the deepest pit of her stomach.

Hearing the door slam brings her back to her senses. As she looks over him, drinking in his form, a laugh escapes her and she moves forward, just as he does.

“Sherlock Holmes,” she murmurs with a slow nod. “I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again.”

His blue eyes glint against the deep orange light, but he does not return her smile, nor does he offer any form of greeting, but he, as ever, remains perfectly impassive, as she’s come to expect from him. She steps closer to him, moving to his side.

“What are you doing here?” she asks softly, eyeing him. He gives a decidedly laconic shrug.

“Your father’s collection – I need a piece from—” The hit she directs at his cheek almost has him spinning on his heels. It makes her smile widen to see it quickly bloom a crisp red.

“Ten years!” she snaps. “Do you know how long that it is, Sherlock?”

“Long enough to improve your right hook, clearly,” he mutters, rubbing at his sore cheek. When he looks to her again, it’s with a small degree of caution and an even greater degree of respect. If only he’d had an iota of that same respect ten years ago. “Also long enough to apparently forget that I never _meant_ to hurt you.”

“Oh shut up,” Molly says, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I was a kid, and you knew it.”

“You were eighteen, actually,” Sherlock retorts, moving behind the bar and grabbing a large bottle of whiskey. Pouring himself a drink, he gulps it back. “And you weren’t entirely innocent by the time I got to you either.”

She brings her hand up again, but this time he’s quick, leaning across the bar and grabbing at her wrist. She flails briefly against him, but he holds firm. He even has the audacity to smile as he looks over her.

“Now, are you going to listen to me Molly, or are you going to continue spending the time raking over old ground?”

She breathes hard through her nose, her eyes narrowing. Ten years, and he expects her help, just like that.

“How important is it that I listen?”

He continues to hold onto her wrist. “Saving the world important.”

She feels her frown deepen into a glare as she considers his words. When she speaks, her voice is remarkably even. “Let go of my arm, and I’ll listen.”

Dutifully, though reluctantly, he lets go. “As I said, I need a piece from your father’s collection. You know it as a brown piece, with a hole and a crystal embedded within it. I know it as something entirely different.”

Her gaze drops down to the thin string around her neck. Should she? _Guard this – you must guard it with your life._ Does she trust him enough?

“Show me it, Molly.” His voice is low, authoritative. Trustworthy. She may have learnt to hate him over ten years, but her father, bless his soul, trusted the man now standing in front of her. With both hands, she grabs at it and slowly draws it out from underneath her vest. Her gaze flicks up to meet his.

“Let me guess – you know it as the headpiece to the Staff of Ra.”

“Indeed I do.” His voice is soft as he reaches forward, touching at the smooth metal of the medallion. She can’t help but give a smile as she leans back, tucking it back underneath her shirt. For the angry eighteen year old Molly that’s still buried deep inside her, the disappointed look that crosses Sherlock’s face is a very satisfying thing indeed, and when his features shift into a dark glower, she can do nothing but laugh.

“My father wasn’t stupid. He told me what all those treasures he hunted meant, not just to him, but to the world. He told me to guard this,”—she touches at the brown string, fiddling with it—“with my life. I’m not about to give it away. Not even to you.”

It seems like an eternity, the length in which he stares at her. If she were anyone else, she’d think he was looking for a weakness, or a way to attack her. Yet she’s seen that look before, and she knows what it means. What it entails.

He breaks into a grin, and arches his eyebrows lightly.

“Well then,” he says brightly, grabbing at the whiskey bottle and bringing forward another glass. “It seems, Molly Hooper…” His gaze does not move from her, and his grin only grows as he pours the liquid into the two glasses. Another chuckle comes from Molly as she picks up her glass. He touches his own glass against hers, tilting his head at her.

“We are now, for the foreseeable future, partners.”


	102. An Alternative Declaration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Sherlock accidentally tells Molly he loves her while they're on a case (not together yet).

As ever when he examined a crime scene, deductions and observations tripped forth from Sherlock’s tongue as he stood over the body, his gaze picking up and storing away clues. Stood a little distance away from him, Molly watched, lips pursed and her head tilted a little to the right as she listened.

"So – have you figured it out yet?"

Molly blinked, looking to Sally, who had a decidedly knowing grin on her face.

"What do you mean?"

"Why he asked you to look over this crime scene with him?"

Molly shook her head, her brow furrowing. “He told me John wasn’t—”

"He came here a couple of hours ago with John and promptly told him to piss off. Then came back with you." Sally only cocked an eyebrow as Molly’s eyes narrowed further and she looked to Sherlock, her pen frozen in place on the paper. Snapping out of her trance, she looked through the notes she had scribbled down thus far from the consulting detective’s observations.

_Female, late 20s, scientist, recently entered into a relationship—pictures of platonic interaction with crush with freshly added doodles. Indicates unrequited love fulfilled. Boyfriend not a suspect._

"Dunno why the arse couldn’t have just come out and told you," Sally said quietly, with a small shake of the head. "I mean, what the hell’s wrong with just asking someone out?"

A call of her name from Lestrade caused Sally to depart, just as a loud laugh spluttered from Molly, and Sherlock’s head immediately snapped up. The tips of his ears went a delightful pink colour as he figured out exactly what had happened. Molly only continued to laugh. Gruffly murmuring something about the security guard, Sherlock quickly flipped up the collar of his coat and began to storm from the scene, only to be pulled back by Molly. Grinning, she stared up at him.

"You utter sod," she murmured and she smiled as she noticed him shift slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly. He cleared his throat a little.

"I don’t know what you mean."

"Yes you do," Molly said, reaching up on tiptoes towards him. "And I love you too."

Quickly, he closed the gap between them, his arms wrapping themselves tightly around her waist before he happily pressed his lips to hers, feeling her smile wider as they deepened their long overdue embrace.

* * *

"Donovan," Lestrade asked, stepping towards her. "Where’s Sherlock?"

"At Molly’s I think."

"What?! He’s supposed to be examining the bloody crime scene!"

"I know sir." Sally retrieved her phone from her pocket and pressed it into Lestrade’s palm. On the screen, there was a text; a text that caused Lestrade’s jaw to go slack.

_Sorry for leaving so quickly – we’ll be back on the case in an hour. Promise. MH x_

"What…?"

As if in answer to Lestrade’s unspoken question, his phone bleeped insistently. Checking it, he found a message from one Sherlock Holmes.

_At Molly’s, don’t bother to contact for a good few hours. Security guard is a potential suspect. Arrest him. SH_

* * *

Molly tucked her chin against Sherlock’s chest, staring up at him with distinctly wide, pleading eyes.

"No."

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock held her closer and kissed at her hair, a hidden grin at the edge of his lips. “Still no.”

Molly eyed him. “It’s been a hour. I will push you out of this bed.”

She was astoundingly beautiful like this; naked, beaded droplets of sweat glistening on her skin, with her hair falling in curls against her back and around her shoulders.

"Oh, but you wouldn’t dare," he whispered, sitting up to kiss at her all too tempting mouth, only for a yelp to escape him as he felt the sheets being pulled out from underneath him and Molly’s hands at his chest, duly pushing him back and off the bed. From his position on the floor of her bedroom, he glared. Molly gave a giggle, turning over onto her stomach to gaze down at him, bright-eyed.

"I told you I would." She nodded towards his hastily discarded clothes. "Now go and solve me a murder."

"But Molly… you’re far more interesting," Sherlock said, a grin flicking onto his features as he attempted to clamber back up towards the bed, only for Molly to press her finger to his lips, stilling him. Her gaze was serious.

"There’s a murderer on the loose, Sherlock Holmes. Find them." She gave a smile, biting at her bottom lip. She leaned back, propping herself up on her elbows to let the bedsheets settled gracefully against her body, offering only a tantalising glimpse. "I’ll be waiting for you when you get back anyway."

Sherlock was up and dressed practically before she could blink, and when he arrived back at the crime scene, it wouldn’t have been difficult to miss the proud spring in the consulting detective’s step.


	103. Not Got a Cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Molly has to convince Sherlock that he's sick and looks after Sherlock when she finally forces him to go back to the flat.
> 
> Another 221b prompt fill.

“I haben’t gob a col’.”

“Sure you _haben’t,_ ” Molly echoed, smiling as she wrapped Sherlock’s scarf around his neck and steered him towards the waiting taxi.

* * *

“You’re being bobally ludicrous Molly, I’m perfectly – perfectly – what am I?”

“Suffering from the flu. Now take these paracetamol, you’ll feel better.”

With a great deal of reluctance, Sherlock obeyed his wife but quickly burrowed deeper into the blankets of their bed. She made to press her hand against his forehead, but he wriggled away from her, shaking his head.

“Oh, come on. We promised to look after each other, Sherlock – at least allow me to _do_ that.”

“You’ll get sick.”

“So that’s what this whole act is about?” Molly asked with a smile, standing up. Sherlock nodded, yet when he felt the other side of the bed dip with her weight, he glared.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t argue,” Molly said, wrapping her arms around his waist and snuggled against him. “And go to sleep.”

He grumbled, but made no real protest. Molly gave a smile and closed her eyes when she felt his hands cover hers, holding her close and drawing one hand over his shoulder so he could press a kiss to her knuckles.

“Molly?”

“Mm?”

“Thank you for staying wib me.”

“You’re welcome,” Molly said, kissing at his shoulders. “Big baby.”


	104. Progression of Sentiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Sherlolly, "Through the Dark" by One Direction.

The first time he makes her smile is when they meet. He stumbles inside, and he’s like a little lamb. He stares at her with an unmatched intensity. She expects he’ll babble, or say something silly.

“My name’s Sherlock Holmes. I’m here to see a body.”

The remark takes her surprise. She smiles wider, but doesn’t get to speak. The morgue door slams open. DI Greg Lestrade stands there. Fury is etched onto his face. He says nothing, but grabs this Sherlock Holmes by the scruff of his neck and throws him out. Her smile fades: she realises. He’s high.

* * *

She can’t get his intensity out of her mind. No-one’s ever looked at her in that way. They’ve traced over her, used her, but never looked at her. A portly, tall gentleman visits her one day in the lab. Sherlock’s brother, he apologises for what she had to witness. Molly wonders how long he’s had to do this; protect his little brother in this way. He tells her his brother has to apologise in person. It’s part of his programme.

The rehab facility is clinical. Comfortable. He’s gaunt, dressed in baggy clothes. His apology is insincere. So is her smile.

* * *

He comes out of rehab three months later, under his brother’s orders. Lestrade brings him into the lab, and watches Sherlock like he’s a time bomb. She quietly talks with Lestrade during lunch. It was his second time in rehab, he tells her; he’s on good behaviour. One slip-up and he’s gone, forever. Molly watches him work. She sees the familiarity with which he works with the lab equipment, and the deftness with which he pulls the puzzles together and assembles them in his mind. Why would he risk all of this? This time, her smile is small and wistful.

* * *

Lestrade stops watching over Sherlock when he’s been out of rehab for two months but Molly doesn’t. She finds herself glancing at Sherlock, her heart hammering as he handles samples of narcotics. Her chest tightens when he catches her. His eyes narrow, but nothing is said. He only sighs and continues working. When she realises the real reason for her watching, she’s in bed, yearning for the relief of her orgasm as her fingers work at her swollen clit. He dominates her fantasy. An irony, she supposes with a smile, that Sherlock Holmes deduces her love for him before her.

* * *

Having a dead man in her flat is a strange thing. His footsteps are barely audible, and he barely registers her. She doesn’t quite know how to behave around him, this man she first knew as a drug addict and has now helped kill. It can’t be easy to be called a fraud everywhere you turn. So when she feels his weight on the empty side of her bed and his arms wrap around her waist, she freezes and clutches at the sheets. He murmurs something. She doesn’t know what it is, but she smiles anyway; a smile of hope.

* * *

It is years later, when Moriarty is gone and John is safe, that he confesses something. It’s the middle of the night when he tells her, and he’s broken into her flat and he’s holding her by the waist. He apologises for everything, softly at first. She tries to tell him it doesn’t matter, but he only directs a look at her and she quietens and listens. The apologies come in fits and starts, and when all is done, he kisses her.

It’s not romantic, this declaration; it’s clumsy at best. She still smiles. They both smile. They both fall.


	105. Leaps of Logic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt(s): Sherlock thinks Molly is going to leave him, he then tries to make her stay. / Established Sherlolly. Sherlock says something terribly harsh to Molly, and she's had enough.
> 
> The two prompts were pretty similar, so I weaved them together. Hopefully deftly.

“ _For God’s sake!_ " The roar of the consulting detective reverberated against the walls of 221b Baker Street, and Molly could feel Mrs. Hudson’s disapproving eye roll. "Molly, your mangy furball _thing_ has been knocking around my experiments again!”

Sighing, she zipped up her trousers and yanked her shirt over her head. She darted into the kitchen, where Sherlock continued to rant.

"Why the hell do you even have a cat?! You know, this of course wouldn’t have _happened_ if you had cleaned up like I asked…” He stomped around the kitchen, petulantly pulling open drawers and throwing them closed again as Toby innocently sat on the worktop, his tail swishing slowly. The only evidence of his crime was one smashed petri dish and a slightly askew microscope.

"Cats are meaningless, disobedient, and not to mention flea-ridden—"

"Sherlock! Will you please just shut the fuck up, for one minute?!" The consulting detective immediately quietened. With a huff, Molly slung her bag onto her shoulder. " _Yes_ , Toby climbed onto the kitchen table. He’s a _cat!_ Their main purpose in life is, pretty much, to climb! If you wanted your experiments to be left alone, then you should bloody well learn to clean up after yourself – and not just expect me to do it!”

Quickly, flicking her hair from her eyes, she wrenched the door open and stormed out of the flat, descending the steps, leaving a crushed, confused consulting detective in her wake.

Sherlock looked to Toby. Reaching underneath the sink, he grabbed the dustpan and brush and pointed it at the aforementioned vermin, frowning.

"I hope you realise that this is your fault."

* * *

Meena languidly sipped at her coffee, far too used to the horridly tepid taste. Gently, she nudged at Molly.

"C’mon, something’s wrong. What’s happened?"

"I yelled at Sherlock this morning," Molly admitted, stirring her coffee and taking a sip. "It was really – really stupid, actually. Toby got into his experiments—"

"And you were tired, and hormonal, and it basically blew up, right?"

"Right."

Meena waved a hand. “Everyone does that. Hell, Simon and I can’t seem to start off the day without a slight bit of bickering.”

"I really yelled at him though," Molly said, giving a sigh. "I hope he’s not too upset."

* * *

John took a gulp of his tea and craned his neck to glance around the nursery door. He shook his head. No, it was still too weird. However many times he witnessed it, it would still be too bloody weird for him to cope with. Other men, when stressed or worried about their partners, went to the pub for a drink with their mates. Sherlock, on the other hand, liked to talk to Harriet. He would stride into the house, pick her up and rock her gently in his arms as he chattered away. Harriet didn’t seem to mind—she did, after all, love attention, as well as the sound of her godfather’s voice—though what Sherlock got out of it was hard to quantify. It was probably the lack of answering back that he liked.

"Of course, it wouldn’t have happened if she had a dog instead of a cat – cats are tolerable, yes, but dogs you can train. I don’t know why she had such a violent verbal reaction to my observations, unless she – _John._ ”

Hearing his voice, John duly stepped into the doorway. His friend was as white as a sheet.

"Sherlock? You alright?"

"What does it usually mean when a woman is cross?"

"Christ, uh – that’s a bit of a complicated question—"

Settling Harriet back into her bed, Sherlock shook his head. “No – at the basic level, what does it mean when a woman gets cross with her partner, her domestic partner?”

"It means she’s cross?"

"No, it means that the endorphins that were previously fuelling the relationship have run out, therefore—" Sherlock stopped, frozen with his realisation.

John’s brow furrowed and he leaned against the doorway.

"Therefore what?" He scoffed a laugh. "Your marriage is over?"

"Obviously."

John’s laughter became a splutter, his gaze following as Sherlock darted out of the nursery and down the stairs. “What? And all because you insulted her cat?”

"People have broken up for far less, John!" The slamming of a door followed his statement. John, not knowing quite what else to do, took another gulp of his tea.

* * *

Trudging up the stairs to 221b that afternoon, Molly unlocked the door and was met with the sight of her husband sitting numbly on his chair, his legs curled tightly against his chest and his features chalk white.

"Sherlock…" she said gently, setting down her bag and shrugging off her coat. She stepped towards him. "What’s wrong?"

He shook his head, looking up at her. “Well, I – after our fight this morning, I went over to John and Mary’s, discussed things with John, and I figured out that you no longer wanted to be married to me, so I came back here, but I didn’t really know what to do so—”

Molly pressed a finger to his lips, causing him to stop. She raised an eyebrow. “During any of this, did you think to check your phone?”

Sherlock immediately made a grab for his phone, resting as it was on the arm of his chair. “I did hear it chime—”

He stopped. A faint pink blush bloomed over his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

_Sorry about this morning, I was being snappy and basically a total arse. Working the late shift today, but I’ll be back at lunch to make up for it. MH xx_

Akin to an excited puppy, Sherlock’s face lit up with a smile. Standing, she kissed at his forehead.

"Right – I’m off to have a shower. Meant to have one this morning, but in the all the excitement, I forgot." Opening the bathroom door, she eyed back at her husband with a deliberate smile. "You can join me if you like."

The fact that he sprung out of the chair and eagerly ran towards her, grabbed at her waist and playfully peppered her neck with kisses gave her a good enough idea of his answer.


	106. Take The World Apart. (Khan/Molly Hooper)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from tumblr user viictoriasong: Dark!Molly and Khan having fun thinking up possible ways to destroy Starfleet.
> 
> Following fic is NSFW and has dom/sub dynamics.

She was so meek, so quiet, so—perfect, that no-one thought to question her. When Khan made his escape from Starfleet and became the terrorist John Harrison, they didn’t question how far the sweet influence of Molly Hooper reached. They didn’t question it when Khan, a devilish smile on his lips, demanded Molly Hooper’s presence as a prisoner on the Vengeance in exchange for the life of their dear Captain, Jim Kirk. They even managed to shed a tear for her as the white strands of the transporter beam surrounded her, illuminating her features; the trembling bottom lip and her pale cheeks, damp with barely concealed tears.

Khan’s smile grew as his gaze traced over her before he looked back to the screen, to Spock, giving a small bow of his head in a mock gesture of thanks. He stepped forward.

"Thank you Commander Spock," he said lightly, reaching up to wrap his hand against her throat, his grip tight. The small gasping noise she made was perfection. "Rest assured, you made the right decision."

Spock’s angered glare flickered to black as he switched off the comms unit and Khan’s smile widened as he bent his head, ghosting his mouth over her neck, his other arm coming to wind around her waist. She leaned into his touch with a low hum of approval.

"You missed me," she murmured and he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her neck, dropping his hand to palm softly at her hip.

"Obviously," he said, nipping at the bottom of her earlobe. His amusement soon evolved into a soft hiss when he felt her fingers snaking its way into his hair, tugging him forward as she turned her head and captured her mouth. Her kiss was greedy, elated and deep; he happily paid her in kind.

"Mm." She broke off their embrace and idly traced her thumb against his bottom lip. “You _did_ miss me. It was so difficult for me, you know. Being away from you for so long.”

He bent his head forward, nuzzling at her temple and kissing at her skin. He almost sounded smug. “But I got you back.”

“That you did.” Her voice was quiet, reflective. Her hungry gaze traced over his form. When she connected her eyes with his again, her eyes sharpened with mischief. “Strip.”

He obeyed her, and she drank him in, all of him, tilting her head and giving a smile, scooping her hair over her shoulder as she slowly circled him.

"I know we’ve got plans to fulfil, but I – well, I find myself in need of you. Get on the floor for me, boy."

Boy. A term that only she would ever dare to use; a term that guaranteed his ultimate obedience, but only to her. He was a creature born out of the need of savagery, designed to defy. She brought that all down with a single word. Admirable. Her knowing smile remained as she divulged herself of her own clothing and straddled his torso. Slowly, she drew a fingernail against the hollow of his cheek.

“I bet you’ve been missing my attentions. Haven’t you boy?”

“Of course I have,” he drawled and Molly arched an eyebrow. Reaching forward, she sank her hand against his hair, drawing her nails against his scalp. He moaned lowly. She gave another smile and clutched tightly. He had such _sensitive_ follicles. Bending forward, she briefly brushed her lips against his.

“Show me, boy. You’re going to show me how much you’ve missed me.”

His eyes sparked with the anticipation as she shifted slightly and began to crawl forward until her knees were settled at either side of his head. God, but he was so _desperate_. Desperate to give her every last piece of his attentions.

With a sigh, she lowered herself against him, reaching towards her thighs and spreading herself, positioning herself in such a way that her hot, wet core was brushing against his lips.

His large hands flew to her arse, cupping her tightly and she gave a laugh, pleasure shooting through her as he began to lick at her, giving himself over to her.

Heavy moans spilled from him as he lapped at her, his palms and his fingers caressing the soft curvature of her arse, holding her tightly against him, his mouth moving as she moved, rocking against him, her body arching as he continued his ministrations, relentless in his need to please her. She bent over him, her belly tightening as her pleasure rippled through and against her body, until she finally came with a throaty gasp. He continued with his ministrations as she gathered back her breath and eventually settled beside him. Giving a content sigh, he held her close.

Thoughtfully, she traced small circles against his chest, chuckling when she felt his hand wrap against her hip, gently kneading at her heated skin.

“Starfleet will be surprised to learn of your betrayal,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Heartbroken, actually.”

She smiled up at him, tucking her chin against his chest.

“I don’t care about them. I stopped caring about them a long time ago. They deserve what we have coming for them.” She reached up to cup at his cheek. “But believe me Khan; I’m only interested in protecting one heart, and one heart only – _yours._ ”


	107. Fish and Chips. (Older Sherlolly)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: More Older!Sherlolly.

"Did you ever think we’d become this?" The question is asked in a musing tone, and her only reaction to such a question is to lightly sigh.

"No." She tears carefully at the fish and chip packet in her lap and takes one of the chips. It’s greasy, sprinkled with salt, slathered with tomato ketchup but she loves them that way nonetheless. Her husband takes his plain. Overhead, the seagulls squawk and hunt, circling families merrily feasting on their picnics. They don’t dare come near them.

Though she isn’t one to believe that seagulls are particularly intelligent animals, she does believe that, with the number of times her husband has grumpily waved his stick at them, they’ve developed a keen sense of when to stay away. They wouldn’t have much interest in them though, as it’s just a portion of chips for them each today; her money’s already gone on the train trip up here. (She would’ve taken the car but her hip’s bad again, so until she can get an appointment with the doctor, she’s stuck with taking the train to see him.)

It’s taken them a long time to get here, to this spot. When she was younger, she never thought it would take them quite this long.

She had dreamed sometimes, of the life they would lead together. They were never fully realised dreams however—they were more shapes, a map of conventions that she believed every couple led once they got past the messiness of are-we-or-are-we-not-dating. Of course, getting into a relationship with Sherlock Holmes would mean that every single one of those beliefs would be defied.

Instead of asking her out when they were in the lab or what not, he chose to ask her as she was busy dissecting a brain. (30s, female, heavy smoker, chronic depression.) He never asked her to move in, nor did he ask her to marry him. Those sort of – well – happened, as and when they were meant to happen. One day, she woke up to discover that she had slowly and subconsciously transported all of her possessions and her clothes, save for furniture, into 221b. When she pointed this out, he’d only smiled and tried to evangel her back into bed. His proposal too, came just as they were washing up one evening. It was the closest moment he’d ever get to romance, and her heart swelled because of it. So she said yes. Children too, came and went—or were lost—as the years rolled on.

She takes up another chip. He makes a low noise at the back of his throat.

“You’re thinking of something.”

She drops the chip she has at her lips into the packet and laughs. She taps at his knee. Blind, in his 80s, and he can still observe her.

“I’m always thinking.”

“You were thinking of something special.”

“Oh?” Her voice takes on a light, teasing tone. “How can you tell?”

“You always shift closer to me when you’re thinking about us.” He wraps his hands, wrinkled as they are, against the top of his stick and tucks his chin against them, enjoying the breeze against his skin. “Plus, you were humming. When you’re happy, you hum.”

She’d offer him a chip, but she knows he’ll refuse. Instead, she leans forward and kisses his cheek. His following grin is smug, and as much as she’d like to remonstrate for him being still so arrogant after so many years, she can’t help but smile as well.

Yes, it’s been a long and winding road. It’s one she’s been very happy to take.


	108. Prom Date. (Teen!lock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Teenlock - Sherlock wants to ask Molly to prom.

Molly may not have been as observant as some people she knew, but she was a distinctly instinctive person; and right now, her instinct was telling her that she was most definitely being followed. Maybe it was the way in which she kept seeing things, just in the corner of her eye—a flash of dark curls as she peeked around a corner, a scuffle of shoes as she whipped her head around, trying her damnedest to catch whoever it was that had designated her important enough to follow around the school.

Therefore, when she closed her locker door to be met by Sherlock Holmes, it was only with a good amount of strength that she managed not to let the pile of books and papers she had wedged to her chest fall onto the linoleum floor.

"Sherlock." She cleared her throat, hitching her bag onto her shoulders. "Did you need something?"

"You."

The answer took her by surprise, and she had to blink as she asked him to repeat what he’d just said. The slightest hint of deep pink touched at the tip of Sherlock’s ears and he lowered his gaze, tucking his chin against his neck.

"Uh, I meant – ‘you’, in the sense of – I was just thinking – would you…” He sighed, closing his eyes. “Which class do you have now? After, after break?”

"Double of Home Economics," Molly answered slowly, narrowing her eyes. "Just like I have for every day this past year."

"Mm. Thought you might have quit it – you’re always talking about how rubbish you are at it."

"We can’t just _quit_ classes, Sherlock.” The bell rang before their conversation could move into any other awkward territory. Molly sighed, smiling up at her friend. She squeezed at his arm. “I’ll see you at the end, okay? Bye!”

Quickly, she moved away, and hoped to God that she didn’t look as nervous as she had felt.

* * *

Greg took a slow drag of his cigarette, and looked to John, who shrugged and adjusted his tie. A little distance from them was Sherlock, who was busy abusing the trunk of a nearby tree with his foot.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid – _stupid!_ " With one final growl of frustration, he leaned against the tree, panting heavily. Greg raised an eyebrow.

"Can’t you just have a cigarette? Kinder on the trees."

"Promised Mycroft I would give up."

"He means his mum," John remarked, to which Sherlock glared.

"No I don’t!" He began to pace, his whole body seeming to twitch with pent-up thoughts. Greg tapped at his cigarette, watching the younger student. Although it wasn’t exactly considered cool for two sixth form students to be seen hanging out with a Year 11, Sherlock’s sharp mind and even sharper tongue had meant that no-one exactly dared to question Sherlock’s presence.

"Look – why don’t you just _ask_ her?”

"Because it isn’t that simple!" Sherlock snapped, continuing to pace. "I don’t even know why I need to ask – surely it should be perfectly obvious – shouldn’t it? Whatever. She should’ve guessed by now!"

"Maybe if you were a little nicer to her?" John suggested. "Maybe less…"

"Less what?"

"Less like a stalker."

"I do not stalk Molly Hooper," Sherlock said stiffly. "I just… observe her."

Greg scoffed. “Pfft. Yeah, right. I saw you, just this morning, in the library. She was reading at a table, and you almost broke your neck craning to look at her from where you were sat.”

Sherlock felt his ears go hot and his jaw tighten as he glared to Greg, who merely continued to appear irritatingly casual in his amusement about the whole situation.

"I was not craning my neck," he hissed, folding his arms tight over his chest. Still he continued to pace.

"Craning or not," John said quietly, "you’d better get a move on."

Sherlock’s head snapped up and he jerked to a stop, frowning. “Why?”

"You’re not the only bloke panting after Molly, Sherlock. Apparently that Tom kid’s thinking of asking her too."

Greg didn’t have a chance to take another smoke of his cigarette before Sherlock was already barrelling away from them, jogging across the field and towards the school.

* * *

Molly let out a heavy breath and paused, touching at her lower back. 20 minutes of work, and her bread dough was still a sticky, wet lump of nothing, while all she had to show for her work was a reddened face from the heat of the kitchen and back ache.

"Need some help?" She turned at the sound of Tom’s voice, light and friendly as it was, and she smiled.

"Yeah, please." She touched at her forehead, shrugging helplessly. "I don’t think I’ll ever get the hang of this."

“It’s okay,” Tom said with a grin as he began to easily knead at her dough. He gave a laugh. “Happy to help!”

The kitchen door slammed open, causing everyone to jump in surprise. All except Molly, who looked up and on seeing Sherlock striding towards her, felt her mouth drop open and her brows furrow in confusion.

"What are you doing here?"

"As my other hints clearly haven’t been strong enough, here’s one you might understand. Molly, I—"

"Sherlock Holmes!" Molly and Sherlock all turned to see the Home Economics teacher stood opposite them with arms folded, a deep scowl etched onto his features on the sight of the young Holmes boy. "I don’t remember you ever signing up for this class."

"That’s because I didn’t," Sherlock retorted, looking back to Molly. "Molly, would you—"

He didn’t get a chance to finish his question, for the teacher—a fearsome man at the best of times—grabbed at the scruff of his neck, steered Sherlock towards the door and threw him out of the classroom.

* * *

Though a very young headmaster compared to his predecessor—his predecessor had retired when she was coming up to her 70th birthday, whereas he was barely out of his mid-20s—Mycroft Holmes was regarded as more than efficient at fulfilling the legacy left. However, Mycroft doubted it said anything good about his abilities as both a brother and a headmaster that the pupil sent most often to his office was, unfortunately, his younger brother.

Usually, it was for something entirely predictable, such as an observation he had made that someone had immediately considered rude, or it had been because he managed to get himself involved in a fight (often verbal, sometimes physical); and very often, Sherlock would sit, sullenly and quietly, opposite Mycroft, barely listen to any lecture given to him and eventually depart.

Today, on the other hand, his brother was particularly jittery, and one quick glance at the tip of his brother’s shoes, scuffed as they were, led to Mycroft calmly getting to his feet and telling his assistant, Anthea, to fetch Molly Hooper from her class and bring her straight to his office.

Sherlock swallowed. A sliver of panic entered his brother’s voice. “Molly has nothing to do with this, Mycroft.”

Mycroft only smirked and stood against the edge of his desk.

"No, I think she has everything to do with this." He leaned forward. "Ask her, Sherlock. Before it’s too late and you end up taking the bathroom mirror to the prom instead. You have, after all, asked it enough times."

Sherlock glared, the knowledge that his numerous bathroom rehearsals hadn’t stayed as secret as he believed causing him to shift a little in his seat. Mycroft chuckled, looking up as the door clicked open and Molly shuffled inside, her eyes nervously searching the room.

"Hello sir."

"Good afternoon, Molly. Sit down." She obeyed, glancing towards Sherlock, who must have read something in her expression, for he gave a minute shake of his head. Mycroft stood. "You’re not in any trouble, Miss Hooper. My brother simply wishes to ask something of you. Good luck – the pair of you."

Molly mumbled a distracted “thank you”, her attention (rightly) more focused on Sherlock. Discreetly, Mycroft left the room.

* * *

Sherlock glanced around at the door, only to see it still closed, much to his irritation. He sighed, running his hands over his face as he took a peek at Molly, only to find her staring straight at him. Quickly, he looked away, focusing on the dreary pattern of the carpet.

"For God’s sake," he muttered. It was just a dance. A formal occasion adopted from American culture that he wouldn’t have actually thought about bothering with if Molly hadn’t mentioned her desire to go. So really, this whole situation was her fault. He took a breath, swallowed and cleared his throat.

"Molly…" Then she looked to him, and she was so patient, so quiet, so… _Molly_ , that all confidence he had dredged up from deep inside of him soon scurried straight to the back of his mind, leaving him right where he’d started. Yet, according to his mouth, it was too late to go back, and the question was out of his mouth before he could stop it.

“ _Willyougotothepromwithme?_ ”

Her mouth dropped open. Had she understood that? He hoped she didn’t. Excuses popped open in his brain; _I was rehearsing for a play_ , _I’ve got poor impulse control_ , _I_ —

"Is that why you’ve been following me around then?"

"I don’t…" He coughed. "I don’t follow you."

"What, are you just checking up on me or something?" Molly asked, cocking an eyebrow. How come she was so remarkably assured?

"A little bit."

"Hypothetically," Molly said, tapping a little at her bottom lip, "if I was to say yes, would that stop you following me around?"

"Not really."

"Why not?"

"I thought boyfriends are _supposed_ to spend time with their girlfriends, if John’s experiences with girls are anything to go by at least.”

Molly’s reaction to his comment—namely to gasp and leap into his arms—was unexpected, but definitely not unwelcomed. Smiling, Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around her and began to thoroughly enjoy himself reciprocating the kiss she had begun.

"I believe that sort of behaviour is reserved for the bike sheds, little brother." Mycroft’s remark was decidedly sardonic in its delivery. With a squeak from Molly, the two teenagers toppled from Sherlock’s seat. Keeping one arm wound around Molly’s waist, Sherlock grinned up at his brother.

"Shut up Mycroft." It didn’t matter what trouble he got into now, because he had a girlfriend, her name was Molly Hooper, they were going to prom together, and he was inordinately happy.


	109. Oh, Lover Boy! (Dirty Dancing AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thewinterspy mentioned her need for a Dirty Dancing AU. I ran with it.

Sherlock Holmes liked many things about Molly Hooper. He liked her looks; he liked her wit; he especially liked that when he moved against her, she made the softest, mewling noises, which soon turned into deep, filthy moans of his name. What he did not like, however, was her propensity towards teasing him.

True, he had started out this particular dance lesson—held in the upper floor studio, high and above away from whatever tedious holiday activity the other camp attendees were involving themselves in—with good, pure intentions but as they danced and he saw the knowing smile hinting at the edges of her lips and the bright spark in her eyes, his mind did begin to wander. So did his hands, which she playfully swatted at, arching an eyebrow.

“Is that how we normally cha-cha?” She shook her head, hiding her grin. “No, I don’t think so. I need my frame.”

Reluctantly, he went back into the called-for dance pose. Contented, she began to count.

“1, 2, 3 – Sherlock!” She laughed as his hands once again began to wander, caressing at her hips and pulling her closer. “God, you are just all _arms_ today. So greedy. Give me at least some tension.”

Although her words were ones of chastisement, her tone was light and teasing, and as he felt her hand sink into the curls of his hair, her other smoothing against his jawline, he bent his head, languidly pressing open-mouthed kisses at her exposed stomach, his arms wrapping around her hips. His smile soon fell into a pout when he felt her hands on his jaw, pulling him up to look at her face. She tilted her head, her lips achingly close to his.

“You are invading my frame, Mr Holmes.” She pulled away and he groaned petulantly, lolling his head back before looking back to her, hunger in his gaze.

“You didn’t seem to mind last night.”

She wrinkled her nose at him.

“Shut up.” She gestured as she continued to speak. “Remember, as I taught you: this is my dance space – _that_ is yours.”

He grunted in an admittance of stubborn surrender and she once again began to count as they resumed their dance.

“1, 2, 3 – 1, 2, 3 – and please remember to look into my eyes Sherlock, not at my breasts.”

She smirked as he stepped back, pointedly glaring straight into her warm, wide brown eyes. She had no reaction or reply to give to this, except to calmly continue to dance.

With a dramatic heave of a sigh, he threw himself to the floor and turned onto his side, licking his lips a little as his eyes strayed over her form. Her hips swayed a little as she danced, and she glanced at him over her shoulder. It struck him that he was being monumentally played with. Still, if she wanted to play, he would play. It was the only way he’d actually get any speck of attention from her anyway—and if she continued to dance, then that was an added bonus.

“Sylvia!” he mimed, along with the record. She bit back a laugh and dropped her arms, looking back to him.

“Yes, Mickey?”

He rolled his eyes, aiming a look at her as she dived behind a screen, her hair flying out behind her before she reappeared, looking at him expectantly. He sighed, his mouth moving along with the words.

“How do you call your lover boy?”

She gave out a laugh as she mimed. “C’mere lover boy!”

How long she was going to continue playing with him, he couldn’t exactly tell, but he wouldn’t have been averse to admitting that he rather enjoyed watching her flit around the studio, that large smile embedded into her features. So again, he mimed along with the words of the record.

“And if he doesn’t answer?”

She smiled wider, bending down to meet him at eye level, her pupils blown wide with her desire for him. “Oh lover boy…” she mouthed, and some kind of primitive, primeval want stirred inside him, causing him to grin and slowly get onto his hands and knees. Playing along was turning out to be rather fun.

“And if he still doesn’t answer?”

She gave a mock-shrug, sinking to her knees, still mouthing along with the music. “Then I say…”

The music continued at that point, but Sherlock could hardly care. He was far too focused on simply watching her, watching as she slowly crawled towards him on her hands and knees. He shifted closer towards her.

The heat of the day and the exertion of dancing had left her with a soft sheen of sweat on her skin, but it only served to emphasise her beauty. She zoned in on him, drawing her mouth closer towards his as, in unison, they straightened up and stood. Her smile grew ever wider as her hands moved their way up his arms, her touch tantalisingly gentle. Savouring every sensation her touch gave him, he wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her closer to him. She welcomed the touch, cupping at his face, pressing her forehead close to his. A soft noise of approval slipped from her as his hands travelled up her back and he again bent his head, tenderly kissing at the heated skin of her collarbone.

Threading her fingers through his curls again, she drew him up towards her and finally took his mouth with hers. He supposed that was what he really liked most—what he loved—about Molly Hooper, dancing instructor at the Diogenes Club’s holiday getaway: she was so contented when he kissed her, so pliable against his touch, so in tune with everything he wanted and needed…

“My sweet baby…” the song sang. “You’re the one…”

Sherlock felt himself smile as he tipped his forehead against hers. Oh, that much was _definitely_ true.


	110. Aller Tout Droit. (A Good Year AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a prompt fill, inspired by the film "A Good Year". A photoset to go with this story can be found here: http://mollymatterrs.tumblr.com/post/95288500019/sherlock-au-sherlock-holmes-is-forced-to-go-to

The tiny car zoomed easily along the quiet country roads of rural France, its small engine barely making an interruption against the tranquillity of the fields and the meadows. Yet the driver, sweat dripping from his forehead, growled deeply as he punched a series of numbers into his phone. On the driver’s console, a map, intelligible and unreadable, flashed up uselessly.

“Aller tout droit,” the soft voice of the satellite navigation commanded. “Aller tout droit, aller tout…”

“Shut _up!_ ” the driver snapped, pressing the phone to his ear. Only two rings sounded before the intended recipient of his anger answered.

“Mary Watson speaking.”

“You did this deliberately, admit it.”

Mary made a low, amused noise at the back of her throat. “If you want to blame anyone, blame John – he booked the car.”

“Arsehole,” Sherlock muttered as he fought confusion over directions with more acceleration of the vehicle (he refused to term it a car).

“Think of it as payback,” Mary said, clearly highly amused by Sherlock’s situation. The hustle and bustle of London was audible behind her. “Anyway, give me a minute and I’ll help you.”

Sherlock huffed, but didn’t protest. Instead, he continued to drive haphazardly along the abandoned road.

“Right.” Mary’s voice returned to the phone. “Are there any road signs near you?”

“In English?”

“In _any_ language, Sherlock.”

Speeding towards a junction, Sherlock pressed hard on the brakes and peered out of the windscreen, hunched up as he was in the sweatbox that had been provided to him. In front of him was indeed a road sign. Perfect, for the time being.

“There’s a road sign here – oh for God’s sake!”

“What now?”

“They're _both_ the D3! Menerbes is to the right and Cavaillon to the left. Neither is particularly helpful, I’ll admit.”

“Alright, alright. Calm down. I’ve checked the map – take the left, that’ll put you onto the N7,” Mary said with a sigh. “I’ll ring and reschedule your appointment with the notaire for tomorrow morning on your behalf, alright?”

“Thanks – you’re such a help,” Sherlock said drily, to which Mary chuckled.

“Yeah, I know. Call me next time you get in trouble.”

Sherlock gave a smarmy grin and pressed on the accelerator and turned the wheel, causing the car to lurch to the left. “Mary, just when do I ever get in trouble?”

“Oh, I’ll hear back from you in at least five minutes, I’m sure.”

The beep of the phone indicated she had hung up, and Sherlock dropped the phone into the glove compartment, continuing on down the dusty path, the sun passing past his window. Perhaps that was why he failed to see that there was another person present on the road.

Indeed, he only noticed their presence when he heard a shrill, muffled cry of “Attention!” and saw a blur of bicycle and flowery summer dress go straight past his car. Automatically, he slammed on the brakes. He wound his window down and looked out to see the bicycle in question (and the cyclist) careen down a small hill and land straight in the dirt. He frowned, watching as the cyclist, female and small in height, leaped to her feet and grappled with her now rather bent bicycle. She heaved it slowly up the hill, the squeak of her bicycle filling the void of silence between them. She stopped besides his window.

“Parlez-vous français?”

He flicked a grin, pushing his sunglasses further up his nose. “No, just English.”

She nodded, tucking her hand against her hip. “Are you blind?”

His gaze fell over her small form. She was thin and not exactly curvaceous, but she was pretty enough, with long honey shaded brown hair. He looked back to her.

“Not at all.”

“Good. Then you _can_ drive.”

“I can drive when there aren’t haphazard cyclists coming the other way, yes.” His grin widened. “Have a nice day.”

With that, he knocked the vehicle into first gear and smoothly pulled away. A decidedly English string of swear words fell from the woman’s mouth and she began to run forward, practically throwing herself in front of the path of the vehicle.

“Fuck!” The brakes squealed under the force of his using them once again in such a short space of time, and he jumped out of the vehicle, cocking an eyebrow at the cyclist. “What are you doing?”

“You ran me over – it’s only courteous that you give me a lift.”

“Pity that I’m not that courteous then,” he retorted, diving back into his car and starting the engine. She however, did not move. His jaw tightened as he considered her. He revved his engine, but she didn’t budge. He inched the vehicle forwards. She leaped back, but still didn’t budge. Giving a sigh, he leaned out of the window.

“Get in the damn car.” Brushing her hair out of her eyes, the woman finally moved out of the way of the car and although Sherlock had expected her to jump straight into the passenger seat, she did not and instead made a beeline for her broken bicycle. He shook his head as she heaved the bicycle up onto its bent wheels.

“No, you’re not taking the bike.”

“I have to – it’s my only mode of transport.”

“Have you seen the size of this – thing?” (It wasn’t a car; it would never _be_ a car.) “Your bicycle will not fit.”

The woman frowned, reaching up on tiptoes. Her face lightened into a smile. “Aha!”

He leaned further out of the car, squinting up at her. “What?”

She glanced down at him. Her grin was decidedly triumphant. “You’ve got a sunroof!”

* * *

“I will be honest,” Sherlock muttered, quickly ducking his head to avoid getting hit by a bicycle wheel for the third time in a row, “I didn’t expect my first day in France to involve driving a cyclist and her bicycle down a rural country road.”

The woman—it struck her that despite the 20 minute journey they had shared, he still didn’t know her name—smiled and smoothed out the skirt of her dress, a slip of a thing dotted with a brightly-coloured cherry pattern.

“I guess that’s what happens when you don’t drive carefully enough.”

“Hm. What’s your name, by the way?”

“Oh, um, Molly. Molly Hooper. Yours?”

“Sherlock Holmes.” He turned the wheel a little as another cyclist made their way down the road. He didn’t have to look to see that Molly—a name which definitely suited her—had arched an eyebrow and shook her head.

“What are you doing in France, then?” she asked. “Ooh, take the next right – we’ll get there in about two minutes that way.”

“Am I boring you that much?”

“No,” she said, her dimples deepening. “Anyway, you haven’t answered my question.”

“My parents – they own a vineyard here. It hasn’t been used in a while, so they intend to sell it. I’m here to overlook said selling of it.” Duly taking the right she had pointed out, he glanced at her. “And you?”

“I live here,” she answered with a smile. “I used to spend my summers here when I was a child and after – um – well, let’s just say I always fancied living in France.”

“I used to spend my summers here,” Sherlock said, deciding to ignore the mystery of her caginess over her motivation of moving all the way to France for the time being and instead to keep the conversation light (it was obvious what had brought her to France anyway—a heartbreak of some sort, probably spurred on by a desire to move on with her life). “Considering the small size of this town, I suppose we probably met once or twice.”

She made a brief noise of agreement, her gaze focused on the near distance, where there stood a somewhat rustic looking cottage. Her smile returned. That, coupled with the dappled sunshine that passed over her, her features appeared to light up.

“Well, this is me,” she said and Sherlock obediently pulled up at the side of the road, shutting off the car engine. She tilted her head, but said nothing. Rather, she got out of the car and after a lot more huffing, swearing and a little bit of help on Sherlock’s part, she managed to remove the bicycle from the vehicle and set it down on the dusty path. Giving a laugh, she held up her hand in a wave.

“It was nice to meet you, Sherlock. Aside from the whole – nearly running me over thing.”

Sherlock smirked and knocked the vehicle into reverse. “Obviously.”

With that, he pulled back and, tilting his head a little, watched as Molly picked up her bicycle and made her way towards the cottage, softly humming as she did so. It wouldn’t be until he had been in France for a fair few weeks and was laid in bed with her, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist and his lips pressed against her collarbone that he would realise just how truly fantastic Molly Hooper was.


	111. C is for Coffee. (Parentlock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr user mollyhooopers' prompt: Teacher/single parent AU.

Not soon after his arrival at the school gates with his twin children, the consulting detective known as Sherlock Holmes had become rather famous among the single members of the Yummy Mummy club that hung around said school gates. 

Gladly ogling the sculpted features of his face and his body, they subtly dropped invitations to various playgroups into conversations and offered to help him with the school run. Having twins was, after all, a challenging thing for a single parent, and they just wanted to help.

Sherlock wasn’t fooled by such comments and easily sidestepped any and all invitations given to him and, very often, if he weren’t in the company of his friend John Watson, then any conversation that strayed from anything to do with his children and their schooling would mean him simply turning and walking away.

Indeed, the only person—aside from John Watson—that he could bear to spend any time with at all was the teacher of his children, Molly Hooper. The other parents assumed that, during the hours they spent inside and outside of the classroom, they merely talked about school and the development of his children. However, their conversations ran deeper than that. During after school club and the quiet moments during parent’s evening or the latest school play, they would sit in Molly’s classroom with a cup of coffee in their hands and discuss family, swap jokes, tell tales and were, quite honestly, friends.

Truth be told, both were somewhat fascinated by the other. In all her years of teaching, Molly had never met a parent who could be so cool and blunt but so warm and playful in the same breadth. She was also yet to meet someone who was so obviously devoted to their children. Sherlock was fascinated by Molly in an altogether different way. She taught primary school levels of education, but during their conversations, she revealed herself to have the knowledge of a doctor in regards to science and the body. He had also never met someone quite so morbidly cheerful. When not in the company of his or other people’s children, she could sit there, her brown eyes shining, and merrily joke about the difference between a cow’s liver and a human’s. She was, in a way, particularly fascinating.

He knew that, if he wasn’t careful, he could end up spending a lot of hours with Molly Hooper, primary school teacher.

* * *

"Milk, one sugar." He set down the coffee in front of her and she grinned, leaning forward and wrapping her palms around the warmed china mug, lopsidedly painted with her name and a flower (a gift from a pupil of hers, in thanks for getting the chewing gum out of his hair).

"You remembered."

"I am capable of doing so," Sherlock said with a grin, drawing up a chair and sitting beside her.

"What are you doing here anyway?" Molly asked, bringing the coffee cup to her lips. No sooner had she done so than Sherlock’s daughter burst into the classroom, her long dark curls (picked up from her mother, so Sherlock had said) flying out behind her.

"Daddy!"

Sherlock was up and out of his chair like a shot, the coffee quickly being put to one side so he could scoop his daughter into his arms, chuckling as she kissed the tip of his nose in greeting. Molly watched them with an affectionate smile on her lips.

On seeing Molly however, Isadora’s grin widened.

"Miss Hooper!" She jumped out of her father’s arms and onto the ground, drawing a piece of paper from her rucksack as she ran towards Molly. Eagerly, she slapped the piece of paper onto Molly’s desk, beaming up at her teacher.

“It’s a drawing,” she said quickly. Molly nodded, looking over the drawing. There were two stick figures, a sun and an intelligible red shape between the two figures. Isadora continued to speak, her mouth running faster than either Sherlock or Molly could register.

“That’s Daddy—” she pointed to the figure which, with the mixture of brown and green, looked like a tree. “I ran out of brown doing your hair, so I made some of Daddy’s hair green – you don’t mind, do you Daddy?”

“Not at all.”

“What do you mean ‘my hair’?” Molly asked, slowly growing more focused on the red shape between the figures as she realised the implication behind Isadora’s drawing.

“Because you’re there too!” Isadora proudly pointed to the second stick figure. “I made your hair curly – like mine!”

“Okay… that’s very nice of you, Izzy.” She eyed Sherlock carefully, who, she noticed, had become rather pale. Isadora continued to chatter.

“And that’s the sun, and that there’s a big, red heart—”

“Isadora,” Sherlock said loudly, clearing his throat. “Why don’t you go and find your brother?”

“Oh, he’s busy playing pirates with Leon,” Isadora replied, waving a hand. “They’re guarding their treasure.”

“Is anyone trying to catch their treasure?”

Isadora shook her head. “No.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed. “Then how are they supposed to guard it? If there’s no-one trying to get it?”

His daughter’s eyes sparked with understanding and with a quick throwaway call of “Bye Miss Hooper!” over her shoulder, she was out of the classroom, the door swinging shut behind her. Molly sighed and sipped at her coffee, trying not to look at the drawing that Isadora had presented to her so enthusiastically.

“She has a – rather overactive imagination.”

“Oh.”

“I mean – the sun could never be that big,” Sherlock said quietly. “We’d all—”

“Burn to death, probably,” Molly said with a smile, and she craned her neck up to look at him. “Wouldn’t want that.”

“No. Um, no.” He shoved his hands deep into his coat’s pockets, twirling on his heels slightly. “I should – I should check on…”

“Yeah.” She widened her smile, putting down her coffee. “Yeah of course.”

There was silence, and although there had never been any reported cases of someone dying from their heart bursting from their ribcage, Molly was pretty sure that the hammering of her own heart could’ve made her the first. It was the way he looked at her that did it. He took a step forward. He began to lean forward. Molly shifted a little in her chair, her breaths shallow and quick.

His mouth was warm against her skin as he pressed it to her cheek, and she finally allowed herself to breathe.

“You can keep the drawing,” he said, his voice soft. It wasn’t hard to notice the way in he lingered and Molly felt herself smile. Her eyes fell back to the drawing. Well, it was never too harmful to try, was it? She flexed back her shoulders, closed her eyes and turned her head. Before he could speak, she pressed her mouth to his. His response was immediate. Curling his arm around her shoulder, he drew her closer and deepened their kiss. Warmth pooled against her skin and deep in her belly as she reached up, sinking her fingers into his curls, tilting her head back a little.

“Is Miss Hooper going to live with us now?”

They jumped apart with a gasp to see Isadora clutching the hand of her brother Max, who was dressed as a particularly grumpy pirate, with a cardboard box marked “Treasure – No Girls Allowed” shoved her other arm. Sherlock smiled, resting his palm against Molly’s shoulder.

“Well—”

“Perhaps,” Molly answered quickly, not missing the brief, confused side eye glance Sherlock gave her. She stood and approached the two children.

“I like your father very much—”

“We know, you were kissing him,” Max said, giving a small smirk. Molly reached up to ruffle his hair and looked at the pair of them.

“ _But_ , as this is a fairly new experience for the pair of us, we’re going to be taking it slow.” She threw a pointed glance over her shoulder at this. “So no moving in just yet.”

A tiny pout appeared at Sherlock’s bottom lip, but was quickly drawn back into a picture perfect appearance of innocence.

“But you do like Daddy?” Isadora asked, tilting her head. Molly nodded, and her answer was greeted with a cry of “Yay!” from Isadora, who quickly leaped forward, engulfing Molly in a tight hug.

“I knew he liked you,” Isadora said quietly into her ear, audible to only the two of them. “He only gives coffee to people he _really_ likes. That’s why I drew the picture.”

Molly gently drew away from the little girl, and drew her thumb over her cheek before she held her hands.

“And I thank you very much for it.”


	112. Bound to Duty. (Victorian!lock + Werewolf!lock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Werewolf!Sherlock ends up shapeshifting into his werewolf form to save Molly from hunters. He then explains the supernatural world to her and tells her why the hunter went after her - because he marked her as his mate - his alpha female - and they could tell that. It's also one of the reasons why she's been having trouble finding dates.
> 
> I went with Victorian!lock for this prompt fill. Because, you know. Werewolves.
> 
> TW: Blood, violence, possible gore.

Her work was a work she enjoyed. Life as an apprentice to an aging apothecary was not one for well born or well-to-do ladies (or any ladies at all, if some people were to be believed) to involve themselves, but she was apt at the task—however mundane that task might have been—and she was friendly to all customers who stepped inside the shop. When she did work, she worked to a routine. Rising early, she made herself breakfast, attempted to wake her employer and set about preparing the shop, sweeping the floors and dusting the shelves being just two of her duties, before she greeted the first customer with a wide, polite smile.

That day, the first customer was Thomas Williamson, a young gentleman of good wealth with bright eyes and a cheerful demeanour about him.

"Morning, Miss Hooper,” he said with a smile, “I’m so sorry to bother you this early, but my mother – she’s becoming quite unwell again."

Molly’s dimples deepened as she swallowed his poorly concealed lie and duly turned around, playfully tracing her fingers against and irregularly examining the various bottles in front of her.

"Is it her rheumatism? Or something else?"

"Something else, I think. She," Thomas cleared his throat, "wasn’t too specific."

'Nothing' was the true answer of course, for Molly had seen Lady Williamson walking about the town just the other day, as healthy as she had ever been, and had even conversed with her, with no mention of rheumatism or any other ailment coming up during said conversation. So she took up a handful of utterly harmless berries, crushed them into a juice and poured them into a small bottle and with another smile, turned around and pressed it into Thomas' palm.

The door to the apothecary slammed open, causing Thomas to jump and he watched, his eyes widening in size and his features going increasingly pale as the intruder’s gaze swept over the small interior of the apothecary. Clutching at his arm tightly, the intruder held a flask in his hand and drank from it regularly, wincing with every gulp. He gave no greeting to either Molly or Thomas, seemingly having not noticed them, and instead swept straight past them, stumbling towards and into the back room of the shop, the door swinging idly in his wake.

"Half a pound, please Thomas."

Eyes still on the swinging door, he dropped the money into her palm and stuffed the medicine he had no need of into his pocket and scuttled out of the shop.

With a sigh, Molly wiped her hands on her apron before she headed into the back room, locking the door behind her.

* * *

She bustled around the small room, long used to the faint scent of damp that stuck to its walls, setting down a needle, thread, iodine and gauze. Laid out against the chair, his blood glistening against his fingertips, he stared, his gaze always never-ending when he looked upon her, even when she lit a candle, holding it close to his features so the orange glow flickered against his damp, dirty skin and the sweat-drenched tendrils of his hair that clung to his forehead and his temple. Her fingertips danced and traced against his form with a surgeon’s precision, a small hum at the back of her throat.

"Some bruising around the temple," she muttered, letting her gaze drop towards the gash sliced across his upper arm. "But the wound isn’t deep. Stitches and a dressing will cure it, easily."

She set down the candle near her tools and set to work. Cutting out thin swatches of gauze, she put them to one side and picked up the needle, threading it carefully. Her hands shook, not with nerves, but a poorly concealed rage. Her voice too, with its firm tone, gave her true mood away.

“Which case was it this time?”

She passed the needle over the candle flame before she turned herself to face him. The fury in her eyes shone, but her touch and her skill with the needle was as gentle as ever, minimising pain whenever she could. He doubted it was any act of kindness on her part though—more an attempt not to wake her drunkard of a master.

"You shouldn’t be so—" He hissed briefly as a flinch of pain went through him and he took another large gulp from his flask as Molly flicked her eyes up at him. "Angry with me – I was saving you."

She gave no immediate reply, but instead coolly completed her needlework before she sat back, eyebrow raised. “Saving me from what?”

He smirked as she picked up the swathes of gauze, dousing them with iodine before she began to dress his wound.

“A loveless marriage, for one thing.”

“You do that a lot,” she mused after a moment. He practically felt her gaze land on him again. “Is that what a lot of friends do?”

He shrugged. “No.”

* * *

She did not hear from him again after that particular incident, not for weeks. They had known one another since they were young and she had long ago accepted that to be his way. He would sweep into her quiet life, make demands and cause damage to progress, before he would depart, leaving her once again back where she started: a lonely young woman with nothing more than her job to keep her content. He had her, dangling, on a thread, and however much they tried to cut themselves free, neither of them would be ever be able to let the other go. Though she may not have known the reason, those were the facts of her life, both of their lives, and she had long ago accepted them.

Therefore, she went about her life in this vein. Stuck, seen as little more than a spinster spending her days doling out medicines and stitching up wounds, until such a time that he demanded her presence and her help. It had been that way for eleven years now, and it would not change.

“Miss 'ooper?” The voice was heavy and rough, and caused her to turn quickly, only to find a man of stocky build stood there, his clothing worn and roughly made, his shoulders wrapped in a cloak; yet it was not his clothing that offended or caused her surprise. At first, it had been the rough nature of his voice, but when she had turned and let herself see the man, she felt herself stepping back. The wound across his face was deep and ill-mended, still to fully heal. Crustaceans of blood were soaked into his skin, following the ragged path across his nose and his mouth. Yet his gait and posture seemed to belong to a man who did not bear such a wound. He walked steadily towards the counter, resting his palms against it. His gaze, dark and hollow and bottomless, sparked when he looked to her.

“I believe you know Sherlock Holmes?”

“No. I do not.” She had encountered criminals before; criminals convinced her rumoured connection to Sherlock Holmes made her valuable in some way, but in the past, that was all they had to work on. Rumours. Hearsay that could be brushed away with one simple word. The man smirked lopsidedly.

“You really don’t?”

“No.”

“What do you know of him?”

“He is the second son of a lord.” Molly turned herself away, towards the till. “That’s all I know.”

“That’s a pretty private thing for a girl to know about a gentleman, Miss 'ooper.”

“Not at all,” she said quickly, snapping her head up to look at him, her smile the perfect amount of blank, forgettable innocence. “It is common knowledge, I assure you.”

With a frown, the man considered her words.

“Good day to ya, miss.”

The door slammed behind him.

* * *

The crisp autumn sun soon gave way to the chill of the evening, but Molly continued to work late into the night. Her master barely made his presence known during the day, only waking at sunset and stumbling down the stairs to take money from the till and head out of the door towards the nearest public house.

“Do you want me to keep the door unlocked for you?” she asked after his retreating form, but her master’s only answer was a deep grunt and a shake of the head before he pulled the door closed behind him. How ironic. A man so unconcerned about his business that he was willing to let it be run by his apprentice yet concerned enough to have said apprentice lock the doors behind him, even if it meant sleeping in some cold and dank gutter somewhere.

Drawing the keys off from their hook on the back door, she stepped towards the front door, only to immediately freeze when she found herself staring at the hollow eyes of the scarred stranger who had haunted her only hours ago. Her fingers hovered against the handle of the door as he gave a smile.

“Let me in, Miss 'ooper. I only wish to talk.”

“The shop is closing. Goodnight sir.” She slid the key into the lock, but the scarred stranger slammed his palm against the door. Her fingers slipped from the key. She could do little but inch backwards as he entered.

“I’ve said everything I need to say,” she said quietly, steadily.

“I asked if you knew Sherlock 'olmes. You said you didn’t.” He came to a stop. His eyes glinted. “But we both know that’s not… _really_ true, don't we?”

She swallowed, her throat rapidly running dry. “Who told you this? I have never encountered Sherlock Holmes in my life.”

“Give it up, Miss 'ooper.” His footsteps echoed. “You 'ave a connection to Sherlock, don’t you? Some special bond, keepin' the two of you locked together. Your defensiveness – your immediate urge to lie in order to protect him. You’re so transparent. Kind of sweet, in its own way.”

“I want you to leave,” she whispered, now stood stock still against the counter.

“Sadly, I ain't leavin', Miss 'ooper. Sherlock 'olmes is a monster who kills and ravages. It’s only my duty to take his one prized possession.”

Before she could speak, he reached towards her, the sweet stench of chloroform filled her nostrils and her eyelids drooped and her protestations fell away into nothing as she spiralled into unconsciousness.

* * *

She woke to the sensation of cold steel against her throat and the scattered sound of jeers. Underneath her body, laid out as it was, she felt the rustle of autumn leaves and the wet mud of the earth underneath her fingers. Above her, looming close over her body, was the scarred stranger. It was his dark eyes that danced over her the pale expanse of her throat where he held his dagger, hissing in false concern as the blade nicked and cut her flesh.

“Hurt, does it?” The scarred stranger smiled, surrounded by other strangers, all wearing wounds and carrying weapons. He gestured to his features, ripped apart by the wound. “Your precious Sherlock gave this to me – 'cause I got close. I got close to finally ridding this world of monsters – monsters like 'im.”

The pressure on her skin increased, and she gasped, the warm liquid of her blood trailing, slowly, softly, down the side of her neck, merging with the cool water of the rain.

“So you’re – killing me – in return?”

A slow shake of the head formed the stranger’s answer. “Nah. You can forget a murder.”

Lightning cracked, her lungs tightened, and her skin prickled, a shiver running up her back and through her spine. As she had always done—as she had always somehow been compelled to do—she had protected Sherlock. Many times in her life, she had protected him in a myriad of ways. Very often, over the years as Sherlock had formed his never-ending web of enemies, it had become the default to protect him from the threat of murder and torture. This stranger, however, was cleverer than the other criminals. He wasn’t going to make Sherlock suffer; he was going to make Sherlock _remember._

The steel of the blade sang as the stranger peeled it from her throat, and she gasped, instinctively, with her relief; but when the blade pierced her skin, she screamed.

* * *

The rain fell quickly, muddying the ground, covering their scent; covering their tracks. For humans, they were fast, and they were clever; and they had technology on their side. Where the wolves had brute strength and cunning, they had weapons. Where the wolves relied on instinct, they relied on training. Bending his head, he slowed to a stop and a low growl escaped him as he bent his head. She was around here somewhere, hidden among the trees. The faint stench of the hunters told him. A scream filled the air, high and cold and pained. His ears twitched, and his head darted up. _Molly._

He sprinted forward, a growl tearing through him as he pounded, pounded across the forest floor, darting every obstacle that presented himself to him. Another scream, more drawn out, seared itself into his memories as it echoed around the forest, ringing in his ears. Forward, forward—faster, faster! A voice, a whisper, barely audible and only briefly caught, sounded, followed by a third scream. Her name rolled around in his mind. Molly, Molly, _Molly._ The whole reason this chase had begun. With a final roar, he leaped forward and broke through the undergrowth.

The hunters were there, but he barely registered any of them. Raging and roaring, he tackled them to the ground, swiping at them, pulling screams from their mouths until there was nothing but silence; silence that was only broken by her heavy, frightened breaths. She flinched as he approached, and froze when he bent his head, his eyes absorbing the damage these hunters had bestowed upon her. At the lower part of her throat, just above her collarbone—that was where they had made their mark, and given their warning. He gave a deep rumble, and she flinched again, but there was something different in her gaze. They were narrowed, her natural curiosity overriding any fear that the hunters had instilled within her.

Slowly, he lowered his head, just as she raised her palm. Her touch against his fur was unsure and ungainly, but sincere. He quietened, stilling as she drew her hand against the crown of his head, but he never once looked away from her. If she just looked at him, she would see past the form he stood now before her in. She would see what he truly was. Her eyes widened in recognition, and when he moved towards her again, she did not fear him.

* * *

“It’s over now,” he murmured. Freshly dressed, he stepped inside her room, his eyes zoning in on the mark they had made. A crescent moon with an arrow running through it, it was the mark every hunter gave their victims. He had seen it too many times to regard it with any kind of neutrality. However, it was light, not deep. It would heal, and if there were scars, they would no doubt fade with time.

“The stranger said he thought we were – connected somehow.” She half-mumbled her speech, still lost in sleep. Wrapped in the blankets of her bed, she reached out for him as he drew up a chair beside her bed, and he took her hand gladly, gliding his thumb across her fingers.

“We are.” If there was a time to be fully honest, it was now. “We were young when it happened – very young, though more in spirit than in body.”

Despite it all, despite everything, she managed to smile. He shifted a little in his seat, but her grip on his hand remained firm.

“Molly, I don’t underestimate your intelligence – surely you must recognise what I am by now.”

Her smile faded, but she held his gaze. “I know you are not of this world.”

“No, I am of this world,” Sherlock said, a little too firmly, as if he were trying to tell himself such a truth, and not her. He cleared his throat. “I am a human – just of a different type of human, I suppose. I was born like this. My parents were both the same creature that I am.”

“And what – what sort of creature are you?”

A loaded question. Perhaps it was best, for now, to go with the simplest answer. “A werewolf. Yes, like the ones read about in fairy tales, save for one thing. Where most werewolves are created from a bite, my own condition is hereditary. Obviously, my brother shares the same fate.”

“That doesn’t explain our supposed connection.” Strange, how her strength manifested itself sometimes. Here he was, finally telling her the truth, risking everything in doing so, and her only reaction was to raise an eyebrow and make a dry remark. He sighed lightly.

“I marked you.” At this, she did not smile nor make any sardonic comment. Neither did she protest when he withdrew his hand from hers. “As I said, I was foolish. When I first began to transform, I was scared – and so I held onto what was familiar. I held onto you.”

“Held on?” There was a familiar edge to her voice, cold and clipped. He lowered his gaze, giving a nod.

“For purely selfish reasons, obviously. That is, after all, my nature. Whenever I was in trouble, I came to you.”

“Why? You didn’t know I’d help you.”

“I trusted you would. Or perhaps ‘hoped’ would be the better word,” Sherlock murmured, rubbing at his thigh in thought. “That same trust came with consequences. Unbeknownst to me, I had claimed you.”

“Claimed me.” Her eyelids fluttered closed. “In what way did you ‘claim’ me?”

“I’m an Alpha, Molly. Part of my bloodline. When an Alpha male is shown to truly desire a female, that female is thus deemed that Alpha’s mate.”

She started at this, sitting up. Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t – _desire_ me. You never have done. You just said as such yourself – you used me.”

“No, I _trusted_ you. I do believe there’s a difference.” He aimed a look at her. “And I don’t trust just anyone, Molly.”

The meaning behind his statement was clear; he could see it in the way her posture changed, became more relaxed, and the way in which her expression softened as she looked to him, considering all that he had told her.

“Sherlock Holmes…” She spoke his name with a new meaning behind it. Quite what that meaning was, he couldn’t really decipher. The sensation of her fingers tracing against his hand made him start, then relax. She briefly bowed her head, tucking a curl of hair behind her ear before her gaze flicked up to meet his. “I always wondered why I could never quite let you go.”


	113. Two Sides of the Same Coin. (Mary Morstan & Molly Hooper)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: a fic where Molly finds out Mary shot Sherlock.

Molly had to sit down for a minute—or perhaps two. Mary Morstan was sweet, funny, baked her own bread and liked cats and drank wine and watched silly romantic comedies with her and sighed at the stupidity of the Lib Dems. She wasn’t an assassin. Yet apparently, she was; and she was the one who had shot Sherlock.

Her friend—she had shot her friend, because he’d taken a single step forward. The blonde-haired woman stared at her, one hand scooped protectively around her belly.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her gaze lowered.

Molly shook her head. There were two images—Mary the assassin, and Mary her friend—and they just didn’t, _wouldn’t_ , click.

“Why did you do it?” Her voice was oddly calm. A trait she’d inherited from her mother; a sea of calm on the outer shell when inside, she felt she might explode and the world might fall apart from the ferocity of what she felt. Mary opened her mouth to speak, but Molly held up a hand, minutely shaking her head. “And I don’t want the official version – Sherlock already told me that. That’s why I’m here. Tell me what went through your mind that made you think shooting Sherlock was in any way a good idea.”

“It wasn’t a good idea,” Mary said firmly. “It was my only option. Magnussen holds power over much of the Western world – he already knew of my connection to John. If he knew of my connection to Sherlock as well, he’d no doubt have used that too.”

Molly shot to her feet, but she didn’t really know why. She needed something to do. She needed to _move._ Ever since hearing Sherlock whispering Mary’s name along with John, her mind had whirred and thought and theorised. For weeks now, Mary Morstan’s name had been a thorn at the back of her mind. Of course, seeing as it wasn’t entirely fair for her to try and prise answers from Sherlock (the man was stubborn enough when he was well and she doubted that he would any less stubborn, even under the influence of morphine), she had decided to go straight to the woman in question. She just hadn’t expected _this_ kind of answer.

“Does John know?”

Mary swallowed thickly and nodded. “Yes. Quite recently actually. He – wasn’t entirely happy.”

“I can understand his position,” Molly snapped, immediately regretting it. Mary sighed a heavy, sad sigh and curled up on the sofa. Everything about her screamed a defensive state of mind. Molly paused, her shoulders sinking slightly. “And I can understand yours, annoyingly.”

“Why annoyingly?”

“Because I know it will make it that much bloody easier to forgive you,” Molly said, and she would’ve been lying if she’d denied that her mood had lightened considerably when she saw Mary swallow a smile. There she was; her friend. The woman who lambasted most romantic comedies but had a secret fixation for Richard Curtis, the woman who had made her cry with laughter with funny stories about her courtship with John Watson, the woman who had been there with ice cream when she had needed to whine about her failure of a love life. The woman who was kind, compassionate and doled out advice that just seemed to make the most overwhelming situation seem not so bad, in the long run.

Molly had friends. She had Meena, who she could go to when she needed to reminisce about their university days and party with when she needed to just forget the world. She had Sally, whose pragmatism and wit had proved a blessing whenever Sherlock had been particularly difficult.

However, she had never had a friend like Mary. She’d never had a friend who did—who was—all of that and _more._ Now that friend turned out to be an ex-assassin. But what was she supposed to do with that? Cut her off because she had lied? For God’s sake, she had known Sherlock Holmes for far longer than she had known Mary Watson née Morstan, and he’d dabbled in drugs, broken her heart far too many times to count, poisoned his best friend and faked his death—something she herself had helped with. Yet she had never, not once, whatever struggles he had borne her, abandoned him. Molly knew herself to be strong. Over the years, she had proved that, and she wasn’t going to let one ex-assassin stop her from being so.

“Right.” She let out a breath and sat down again. She fixed Mary with a stare. “I am angry and it’s going to take me a long time to forgive you, sure, but Mary, you’re my friend, and I don’t abandon my friends. Got that?”

Mary let out a laugh, but her eyes shone with her relief. “Yeah. I get that.”

“Good.” Smiling, she glanced at her watch and immediately swore. “Ah, shit – I’ve got to get to Bart’s. My shift starts soon, and Francis hates it when I’m late. I’ll see you later.”

She shoved on her coat, feeling the eyes of her friend still on her.

“Molly?”

“Mm?”

“Thank you.”


	114. Never Let Me Go. (Soulmates AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired from a rather complicated anonymous Tumblr prompt of a soulmates AU where Sherlock has to rescue Molly from being experimented on at Baskerville, where they are trying to perform so-called 'soulmate separations'.

_"Politicians are gathering in Parliament today to discuss a radical new bill which will enable the notorious ‘Soulmate Separation’ experiments of Baskerville to be named legal under British law. This debate has been raging for months, with both sides presenting strong evidence…"_

Sherlock sighed and swung himself into his chair, quickly switching off the television, earning an annoyed cry from Molly.

"Sherlock!" she whined. "I was watching that!"

He grunted, tucking his fingers under his chin and closing his eyes. “Thinking. Television was annoying.”

"Go and think somewhere else," Molly said and there was the unmistakeable squeak of leather as she burrowed deeper into the sofa, as she often did when in a sulk. Sherlock deigned to open one eye. On seeing his wife with her legs curled up to her chest, petulantly eating the rest of her cereal, he could do little else but laugh.

"You can’t seriously expect me to listen to anything you say when you look like that, do you?"

Molly sat up. “Look like what?”

"Look that adorable," Sherlock replied, his mouth quirking into a smug smile when Molly’s features darkened and she valiantly tried not to return his ever widening grin. It took her only a few moments to give in, and she gave in with a burst of a laugh.

"I really hate you sometimes," she said, watching as Sherlock stood and moved towards her, prising the cereal bowl from her hands and discarding it on the side table.

"Well of course you do," he said gently, pressing a languid, tender kiss to her lips. "I am, as has been pointed out on many occasions, an arsehole."

"Only you could try and seduce your own wife by stat—" Molly soon gave up on her retort, far more busy with the fact of her husband’s warm mouth pressing gently onto hers. As they continued to exchange lazy kisses with one another, she wound one arm around his waist, the other drawing up underneath his t-shirt. She felt him chuckle, and her mouth drew into a pout as he drew away from her and stood up.

"Just taking your mind off the television," he said, in answer to her silent question. Her pout hardened into a playful scowl. Her husband, proud as a peacock for being able to tease his wife in such a way, had a distinct swagger in his gait as he strolled towards the kitchen, grinning at her over his shoulder.

"Don’t look at me like that."

"I’ll look at you any way I want to," Molly called after his retreating back, and from the kitchen, she heard him bark a laugh. "Anyway, haven’t you got work to get to?"

"No." So that accounted for the teasing. There came the signature clatter of Sherlock’s attempt at washing up. "The London criminal underworld seems to have gone to sleep as of late. I know that you’ve got work – or _had_ work, about 10 minutes ago.”

Molly glanced down at her phone. Her husband was right—she was, currently, running ten minutes late.

"Bugger!" Quickly, she zipped into their bedroom, slamming the door behind her. She zipped out again not a minute later, dressed with her bag slung over her shoulder. Sprinting towards her husband, she grabbed at his dressing gown, drawing him in for a passionate, but brief, kiss.

"I love you – text me if you need anything."

"What if I need you?" The glint in his eye gave away just what sort of ‘needing’ he meant.

"Don’t you dare!" Molly said with a laugh, heading towards the door. "I’m in enough trouble as it is with being late!"

The door to 221b slammed behind her. It would be little under an hour later that Sherlock Holmes would be told that his wife was missing, and had been legally declared dead.

* * *

He knew she wasn’t dead, almost as soon as the Family Liaison Support Officer had said the words. They claimed she’d been involved in a car crash, whilst speeding on her way to work. She hadn’t been looking where she was going, they said, with stoic expressions on their faces. The bus had apparently come out of nowhere, and slammed straight into the side of her car.

It was all there. The time and location of death (30 minutes after they’d retrieved her from the wreckage, in the ambulance as they tried to rush her to hospital), the place where the crash had taken place (15 minutes from their flat, at a junction) and the list of her injuries (fractured skull, broken ribs, heavy internal bleeding).

They stayed for only a few minutes after, reeling off information about grief counsellors and support groups, but every word that dripped from their mouths stank of shit.

Yet he didn’t say a word. He played the part of loving, grieving, shocked husband, with tears in his eyes and tightness in his voice, as if he were close to breaking down in front of them. Uncomfortable, they had quickly made their departure.

Only when he saw their car make its way down the street, he grabbed his coat and headed down the stairs.

* * *

_"The Soulmate Separation experiments performed at Baskerville are bringing ethical and biological risks to this country’s people, and should not be made legal!"_ Loud, boisterous cheering accompanied the Shadow Leader’s speech. _“I ask the Prime Minister, a man who has, in the past, lauded the biological Soulmate system – and I quote – as “a way to bring peace and prosperity to the world”, why he suddenly believes that the same system is toxic or damaging enough to allow these experiments to continue!”_

"John! Mary!" The front door slammed open and John Watson turned his head to see Sherlock storming into the living room. He was pale, almost sickly, and gaunt, his whole body seeming to twitch. John quickly rose to his feet, just as Mary’s footsteps sounded on the staircase.

"Sherlock?" John’s tone was tentative. "What’s happened?"

"30 minutes," Sherlock mumbled, beginning to pace. "Ambulance – dead – Molly – she isn’t, she can’t be… she isn’t…"

"Jesus – Sherlock, you’re almost manic. What’s wrong?"

"It’s Molly, isn’t it?" Mary asked gently. Sherlock nodded, but he still muttered.

"It isn’t possible – she’s been taken – has to have been…"

John straightened up, squaring his shoulders. “Taken by who?”

"The government. It’s them – why else would they fake her death?"

"What? Molly’s dead?"

"No, they _faked_ it – aren’t you listening? They told me she was speeding, which is ridiculous, she never does, not even when she’s late, however much I might encourage it – so why would she speed now? Why today?” Sherlock shook his head. “No, they’ve taken her.”

John felt Mary come to stand beside him. Instinctively, he wrapped his fingers in hers. “Why would they take Molly? You don’t think it could be something to do with – these Baskerville experiments, do you?”

Sherlock shrugged, itching at the inside of his wrist. He narrowed his eyes at Mary. “Where are your guns? Don’t bother lying to me, you’re both adrenaline junkies, of course you’ve still got your guns – tell me where they are.”

"Only if you tell us what you plan to do with them, Sherlock," Mary said firmly, giving a curt nod when John aimed a withering look at her. “Baskerville is a heavily militarised army base – you can’t go in there all guns blazing.”

Sherlock let out a huff, pulling his phone from his pocket. He tapped out a message as he spoke. “It’s a necessary precaution, that’s all. My wife has been kidnapped by the government – I thought it would be a rather good idea if I went in somewhat prepared.”

* * *

On the other side of London, Mycroft Holmes was distracted from his routine reading of the newspapers by a beep of his phone. Casually, he picked it up, his eyes widening as he saw the message.

_Your minions at Baskerville have kidnapped my wife. Give me full access for 48 hours. – SH._

Mycroft glanced up from his phone, looking to his assistant.

"Anthea."

"Yes, sir?"

"My brother has got himself into a spot of bother. He’ll need full access to Baskerville for 48 hours."

Anthea nodded. “Arranging it now, sir.”

The train whirred past the green scenery of Dartmoor, further towards Baskerville, and Sherlock felt his phone buzz against his thigh. Retrieving it, he found a message, sent from an unknown number. In that message, there was one name, and one instruction.

_Dr Jacqui Stapleton. Talk to her._

* * *

He found her in the local pub, sat quietly on her own and vastly different to when he had last encountered her. The cool arrogance, that slightly manic self-assurance, had gone. The spark had faded, and she was now little more than a shell. Above the bar, a television played the rolling 24 hour news. Of course, the main topic was Baskerville. The debate was still raging.

"Is this about the glowing rabbits again?" She gave a soft sigh, running her hands through her hair. "Because I let my daughter have the last one.”

"Guilty conscience?" Sherlock asked as he pulled up a chair. He parked himself opposite her.

"Something like that," Stapleton said, folding her arms over her chest. She avoided his gaze, and that was enough for him. Thick long-sleeved jumper, worn in the middle of summer? Plus deliberately evasive body language? Doctor Jacqui Stapleton was hiding something.

"Did Baskerville finally overstep your ethical line?" A blunt start to an interrogation, true, but his wife was under the capture of the government and he didn’t have the time to be gentle. Stapleton considered him for a moment.

"No." She stretched out an arm, tugging her sleeve up. Burns were practically engraved into her lower arm, white scars in the place of words, words which had previously tied her to her Soulmate. She fixed him with a stare. "I did."

In hushed whispers, the story poured out of her. “Two years ago, we – Baskerville – received loads of funding and equipment – more than ever before. Understandably, everyone went a bit mad with it. Soon, it got difficult to keep track of who was doing which experiment. Then the government got involved – started recruiting scientists for some special project. They were especially pushing for geneticists.”

"Let me guess – you just couldn’t resist."

"It was all rather enthralling at first, working with new technology, on new subjects. There are only so many glow-in-the-dark rabbits one can make, you know? Of course, when the whistle was blown on us and the ‘Soulmate Separation’ scheme, the government wanted better results and more quickly too. But, fairly early on in the process actually, we began to run out of test subjects. And, well, I’ve – I’ve always been eager to get involved with things…"

Sherlock ran his hands over his face, sighing. “So you volunteered yourself.”

“The best scientists always do,” Stapleton replied, bitterness in her voice. “Unfortunately, I’d never got a close look at the actual experiments – my part had always been more theoretical – so, when I was allowed to volunteer, I jumped at the chance. Quickly regretted that.” She lowered her voice even more, glancing about the near empty pub. “You have to understand something, Mr Holmes – the whole concept of a Soulmate isn’t just a romantic one. A Soulmate can be anything – a friend, a family member—”

“A daughter,” Sherlock finished, and although Stapleton held his gaze, her eyes grew wet. He leaned forward. “Where are the experiments performed?”

“A hospital, outside of Baskerville. It’s fairly remote.”

“Do you remember where?”

Stapleton nodded. “But I’m not coming with you.” She picked up a napkin, drawing a pen from her pocket—the permanent carrying of a pen was presumably a habit she’d picked up in her career that she’d found hard to break—and she began to draw out a map.

“If you’re thinking of trying to throw me off the scent, don’t.” Stapleton’s pen stilled at his words. “Because I’ve got two friends outside – and they are remarkably easy with the idea of handling a gun.”

A split second of silence passed before Stapleton sighed and flipped over the napkin, drawing the map anew. When finished, she pushed it towards him. Still she held his gaze.

“I promised myself I wouldn’t step foot in that place again.”

“Yes…” Sherlock rose to his feet, stuffing the map into his pocket. “I can see why.”

* * *

Her head felt like a ton weight, her limbs ached and whatever garment covered her body felt cold, more akin to a sheet of plastic than any other material. Her eyes fluttered open and a woman, kind-faced and fair haired, dressed in cool blue scrubs, smiled down at her.

“Hello,” she said softly. Molly opened her eyes wider, blinking when she was met by bright overhead lights. She twisted her head, looking up and around, but the nurse clucked her tongue in concern, standing and smoothing at Molly’s hair. She groaned. Sit up—she had to sit up. Yet when she attempted, the nurse, again with her faux sounds of concern, pressed her hands against Molly’s shoulders, easing her back down to a lying position.

“No,” she ordered, still with that same soft but firm tone. “You need to be well rested.”

Drugged. Being a medical student and a woman, she recognised the symptoms well enough, having had them drilled into her for years. She looked up at the nurse. Should she say something? Doubtful. These nurses and doctors were no doubt trained to be alert for any sort of rebellion. Plus, she was too weak to run if any sort of alarm was raised. If she was going to get out of here, she had to play dumb, bide her time, gain what she could of her strength and, most importantly of all, figure out exactly she was. So she allowed herself to be pressed back into the mattress of the bed and remained utterly blank.

“There,” the nurse said, giving a smile. “The doctor shall be along shortly.”

Molly nodded slowly and finally let go, falling into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

“Molly.” The voice was low, and familiar. Her eyes fluttered open, and she was met by the blue eyes of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. She blinked, but no, not a hallucination. Her gaze flicked downward. Mary was stood at the foot of the bed, gathering her things together, whilst John was stood at the door. Both of their guns were just about hidden by the lab coats they wore. So that was what she had woken up to: a rescue. Again, she blinked, looking back to her husband.

“What time is it?”

Sherlock smiled. “Midnight. Late enough for enough doctors not to be on duty to efficiently mount a rescue, but not late enough for it to be odd for doctors to be roaming the corridors. Can you sit up?”

She twitched her fingers, and wiggled her toes. It was easy to move: there were no lethargic movements, and no aching limbs. Whatever sedative they had given her, it had doubtless worn off by now.

“Yes. But I’ll probably unstable for a fair few hours – you’re going to have to support my weight.”

“Fair enough.” She felt Sherlock’s hand wrap protectively around her waist. “We need to get you dressed – I’ve already worked out a route out of here that will allow us the least chance of detection, but you never know – there might be some cleaner or other roaming about the corridors, just itching to raise the alarm.”

Listening to him, watching as he stepped away and began to quietly converse with Mary, Molly felt a smile touch at the corners of her mouth. She may not have been able to rely on her husband to do the washing up properly, but she could—at the very least—rely on him to mount a daring rescue.

* * *

**_Three weeks later._ **

_“Ever since an overwhelming ‘no’ majority in Parliament, the fallout from Baskerville’s now disbanded ‘Soulmate Separation’ experiments still continues. An inquiry has now been announced to take place, with several of the test subjects stepping forward to act as witnesses, including Dr. Jacqui Stapleton…”_

“You’re still watching that?” Molly asked, nodding towards the television as she strolled into the living room, her hair still wet from her shower and one of his many dressing gowns wrapped around her damp skin. 

“I’ve learnt the importance of doing so,” Sherlock said, instinctively smiling and he wrapped his arms tightly around his wife’s waist as she climbed onto his lap. The news continued to drone on.

_“Pressure has been growing on the Prime Minister from both MPs and the general public, and rumours indicate an early autumn general election.”_

“Do you think there’ll be one?” Molly asked, drawing her fingers through Sherlock’s hair. He moaned a little in approval, and pressed a soft kiss to her mouth.

“If Mycroft has his way, yes,” he said, holding her closer. “He’s never liked the current Prime Minister – he’s been looking for an excuse to get rid of him for ages, actually.”

“Mm. Of course, he could’ve just exposed the experiments at Baskerville sooner…”

“Oh, but that would mean actual involvement on Mycroft’s part. No, he has to let everything play out. Wait until someone important gets captured to lift a finger.” He scoffed, but his features softened when he looked to her. “Can you remember much? About that day?”

Molly shook her head. “No. I remember being pulled over – they said I had a broken brake light. I don’t remember much after that.”

“That must’ve been the moment when they drugged you,” Sherlock mused, slowly rolling his thumb against her hip in thought. When he spoke again however, his voice was quiet. “I was so scared, Molly.”

“I can’t expect it was nice to hear that your wife had been killed.”

“No, I knew you weren’t dead as soon as they told me about the speeding. But the thought—”

Molly shifted, drawing his head closer to her chest. She dropped a gentle kiss onto his curls, breathing him in. “I know,” she murmured. “I know. I’d have been the same.”

Her husband lifted his head, considering her for a long moment. Wordlessly, he wound his arms tightly around her waist and buried his face against her shoulder, kissing at her skin as he hugged her. Molly chuckled softly, looping her arms around his neck.

“Does this mean you’ll stop encouraging me to start speeding?”

“Mm. I will probably encourage you to look both ways, however.” He smiled when he felt her kiss his temple.

“Don’t worry. I will.”


	115. The Best Man's Speech.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: John's speech as best man at Sherlock and Molly's wedding.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please pray silence for the best man."

The hushed whispers and light chatter of the guests faded away and John Watson got to his feet, clearing his throat and rubbing at the back of his head. An encouraging nod from his wife and an impatient raise of an eyebrow from his best friend was what enabled him to speak.

"Right, um – okay. First things first, for a kick off, I should probably let you all know I’m not entirely great at this sort of thing. In fact, I’m pretty sure Sherlock’s got a bet on with Greg about how long it’ll take me to mess things up." He sucked in a quiet breath, shifting his weight, drawing his thumb against the cards in his hand. "I think, when you look at Sherlock and Molly, it’s kind of obvious how suited they are to each other. When I first met Sherlock, I didn’t realise how – well, how much of a friend he’d become to me. And when I met Molly, I didn’t realise how important she’d become to Sherlock – even becoming so important to him that she would, pretty much, end up saving his life, not once, but twice. I also didn’t realise just how, um, compatible these two are. Not until Mary pointed it out to me of course. She’s always been much more clued in to those sorts of things than me, I think.”

“John.” At the mention of his name, he turned to his best friend, who grinned tightly up at him. “While this is very lovely, try and get to the main point.”

John huffed. “Shut up, Sherlock.” Straightening his shoulders, he looked back to the main crowd of guests. “Anyway, as I was saying – Sherlock and Molly are two incredibly compatible people. It’s not the weird jokes that the two of them make – nor is it the near constant stock of body parts that they have at Baker Street. It’s more the fact that they kind of complete each other.”

From beside him, Sherlock gave a heavy, despairing groan; a sound which was immediately followed by both a yelp as Molly swiftly kicked him under the table and a poorly stifled giggle from Mary.

“And they _do_ ,” John said, somewhat firmer than he’d originally intended. Briefly, he cleared at his throat. “Complete each other, I mean. Where Sherlock can be a total and utter arse, Molly can be – kind of unbelievably – sweet and kind-natured. Where Sherlock is loud and erratic, Molly is quiet and steady. But that’s only part of what makes them so compatible, and why I’m standing here today, giving this mess of a speech. Before, I used to think that Sherlock Holmes was someone – something – you couldn’t control. You just had to let him do what he wanted, and let him get it out of his system. Then I met Molly Hooper.”

He chuckled lightly. “Honestly, I’ve seen some henpecked men in my time, but Sherlock somewhat takes the biscuit.” More laughter came from the crowd, much to the consternation of Sherlock, who sank lower into his chair and went about quietly grinding his teeth together. John only smirked. Sherlock had solved a murder during his speech, and recounted the horrors of his stag night—it was only fair that John got to deal out some embarrassing secrets during his turn. “A thousand words from either me, Mary or, indeed, anyone else, and Sherlock will no doubt remain obstinate and stubborn and rude. Then Molly will rock up and usually with the use of just one look, get him to apologise. I honestly don’t know how she does it – even though I’ve tried to get her to tell me – but it does link back to my original point: Sherlock and Molly complete each other. They make each other better – and that’s pretty much what a relationship is. That’s what makes a marriage. It’s two people who build on what’s already there and make it _better._ And that’s what Sherlock and Molly do. They make one another, and by extension the people around them, better.”

With a smile, he raised his glass. “So, come on, join me in a toast, to two people who took an age to find each other: to Sherlock and Molly.”

“To Sherlock and Molly!”


	116. How to Give a Compliment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous: Sherlock drunk sexting Molly.
> 
> I made it established!relationship because, hey, it's fun.

It’s 3am when she receives the first text.

_Your arse is a lovely arse. – SH._

To say she’s taken aback by it is a bit of a huge understatement. Blinking, she sits up, still staring at the message, and its sender. Sherlock Holmes. _Sherlock_ _Holmes_ has just texted her, in the early hours of the morning informing her that she had a nice arse. She knows he has a particular fondness for that part of her body, but he’d never been that uninhibited about it. Not unless a certain amount of alcohol is involved. Molly sighs, typing out her reply.

_So just how much have you had? – Mx_

_Nothing much at all. 8, 10 beers, maybe. Lost count. Lovely arse. – SH._

The temptation to answer with “mine or yours” is great. Unfortunately, she’s too nice to do such a thing.

_Thank you very much. Is there a bed near you Sherlock? Are you in that bed? – Mx._

_Yes. Boring bed. – SH._

She doesn’t have to ask to realise why it’s boring. He’ll no doubt tell her in a minute anyway. Sure enough, the text comes through.

_Not you in it. – SH._

_Who’s in it? – Mx._

_Me. Just me. I’m naked. – SH._

If she wasn’t going to photograph these texts for prosperity (because he’ll no doubt plead with her to delete them tomorrow), she is now. She bites back a laugh at the knowledge of a sozzled Sherlock Holmes lying naked in bed trying to seduce her via texting, and taps out a reply.

_Go and get some water, and go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning. – Mx._

_Not thirsty for water. – SH._

_Don’t go down that road. – Mx._

_It’s true though. – SH._

_GO. TO. SLEEP._

There are no more texts after that, thankfully. Giving a sigh, she discards her phone on the side table before she snuggles back into the bed. A low grunt comes from beside her, and she opens one eye and turns. There’s her boyfriend splayed out on the bed, finally asleep, the glow of his phone lighting up his features as his snores gradually fill the previously peaceful silence. Rolling her eyes, she reaches forward and plucks the phone from his fingers, placing it beside hers. She starts when she hears him stir and feels his arms reach out, winding around her waist.

“You lied to me,” he mumbles petulantly. “You said you weren’t here.”

“No, you said I wasn’t here.” Even though she’d been the one who’d had to struggle to undress him with his hands wandering and his thoughts—and words even—growing increasingly amorous, he’d remained convinced she was some hallucination (or “sprite”, as he’d so lovingly termed her). She plies his hands off from around her waist, aiming what she hopes is a severe look at him. “I’m going to get you some water. You’re staying here, okay?”

In the darkness, she sees him grin lopsidedly. He mumbles something about being able to watch her arse; it’s something she decides to ignore.

“I wonder if you ever got this horny when John was around,” she mutters, swinging out of the bed and standing to shove on her dressing gown. The lump of consulting detective snorts, falling back onto the bed.

“Nope,” he declares. “Only you.”

“Glad to hear it.” Leaving him, she darts out of their bedroom.

Yet when she returns with water and paracetamol in hand, he’s (predictably) out like a light—and she can’t help but smile. Putting the water and the paracetamol to one side, she slips in beside him and tightly wraps her arms around his waist, softly kissing at his shoulder blades. He hums lowly in approval.

“Yes… lovely arse.”


	117. The Side Effects of Wearing Purple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Sherlock wearing his purple shirt to see what effect it has on Molly.
> 
> I twisted the prompt a little bit. A teensy tiny bit. Following fic is NSFW.

"Is there a reason you chose to wear that shirt today?" Her question is innocent enough, but there’s an edge to it, to her voice.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing," she says with a smile, thought she bites at her bottom lip.

"Don’t know why I’m asking to be honest. It’s pretty obvious why you’re wearing that particular shirt, anyway." There’s playfulness in her words, and she giggles. Yet she makes no attempt to further the conversation, and instead continues on with her paperwork. He swallows, drawing away from his microscope.

"I – I wasn’t wearing this shirt for any particular reason." He shifts his shoulders a little, looking back into his microscope, twiddling the knobs for no real reason aside to look busy. "Don’t be ridiculous."

"Oh please. You’re not exactly being subtle about it." She slips from her stool, and he can feel the prickle of heat flushing over his chest, moving slowly up his neck. He clamps his eyes shut. No. He was being no more than a hormonal schoolboy. He feels her arm winding around his waist, and starts at the sensation of it. It’s a sensation he hasn’t felt in quite a while—a warming one. He breathes out, but the breath is ragged.

"I mentioned, just a few weeks ago in fact, that you looked good in this particular shirt." Her other arm winds underneath his armpit, playing with the buttons. "I was quite flustered – mentioned that purple suited you. And now here you are, wearing that exact same shirt. Like I said, not really subtle."

"I suppose… not?" He’s flustered. Why is he flustered? He shouldn’t be flustered. Her hand forgets the buttons of his shirt for a moment, fluttering down to touch at the quickly hardening bulge in his trousers. _Oh._ Maybe, maybe that’s why he’s, um, flustered. She doesn’t exactly help matters when she kisses at his earlobe, nibbling lightly, and he can’t stop himself from letting out a moan.

"That’s enough horseplay, I think," she says lightly, and she spins him round, standing far too close to him for comfort. Her smile is wicked as she pops open button after button on his shirt, pressing open-mouth kisses on the heated skin of his torso, before she slowly— _agonisingly_ slowly—sinks to her knees. She gestures for him to lift his hips, and he obeys, unable to tear his eyes from her, even when she grins and takes him in hand and he tries desperately to remind her that they’re in an unlocked lab and anyone could walk in at any moment.

"So?" she says with a slight shrug. Her eyes dance mischievously, and she replaces her hand with her mouth and he can almost see stars.

* * *

"Sherlock." He blinks, to see Molly—the real Molly—standing beside him, a pipette in her hand, hovering over a petri dish. "Are you okay? I mean – you drifted off for a second there."

"Did I? M-must’ve been thinking about the case," he says, the flippancy in his tone not quite taking. She nods, though clearly doesn’t believe him. Not too surprising— _he_ wouldn’t believe him. She makes a low noise at the back of her throat.

"Your shirt looks nice, by the way." He narrows his eyes, looking to her. She, oblivious, smiles. "Weren’t you wearing it a couple of days ago?"

He knows far too well where this particular avenue of conversation could go, and he feels his nether regions flood with the heat of the memory.

"You should wear it more often, purple suits you—"

"I have to go." He’s jumped to his feet before he can register he’s done so, and the speed makes his head spin. He shoves his coat on, and she looks irritatingly bewildered and although he knows he’s babbling, just like her (well, not exactly like her, she’s more musing, she’s in control of what she says, can stop at any time and Jesus Christ, why can’t he get that dream out of his mind) he can’t stop it. "Lots of case – stuff to do."

She narrows her eyes. “ _Stuff?_ ”

"Yes, stuff. To do with the – case. Afternoon." He whips out of the lab, leaving a somewhat confused pathologist in his wake.


	118. Dealing with Demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Sherlock has nightmares. Molly is there to confront them and help him.

Her arms were a cocoon around him, every stroke of her fingers against his curls calm and soothing and slow. As he rocked, curled tightly into a ball, she moved with him, as if he were nothing more than a new-born babe.

"Can’t help you Sherlock…" The voice sang, too sweetly, too nicely. "East Wind’s coming to get you…"

"It isn’t, it isn’t," she repeated, over and over, and he realised he was babbling, babbling words that made no sense to no-one else but him and her. Words he had told her the meaning of in the hope it would lessen this pain, these nightmares that plagued his mind.

”Out – out of my head, please…” His cheeks were hot with tears now, but she didn’t let go; didn’t _tease_ him for being stupid, for giving in. Giving in to sentiment.

"I’m here." She rubbed at his back, tucking her chin against his shoulder. He tried to wrench himself away ( _"You don’t deserve her, Sherlock!"_ ) but she held on tight. He hated physical contact, has always hated it, but with her, it felt right. He couldn’t help but grip on as tight he could, his fingers gripped against her arms, drawing her closer. Her voice bled through, an echo against the monster that usually lay so dormant in his mind palace. “I’m here.”

He should’ve deleted it, deleted it all, but he didn’t. Stupid, stupid man.

"You do deserve me, of _course_ you deserve me…"

Her voice was sweet, and modulated, and loving. The monster raged louder.

"You don’t have to fear it, not any more, Sherlock – don’t have to fear death – don’t have to fear _me_ …” He, it, giggled. “Coming to get you!”

"No he fucking isn’t." Her anger was a knife, cutting through, and he stilled. Her voice shook, but their grip around one another remained. "Listen to me. I will make Moriarty walk through fucking fire before he has even the remotest chance of getting to you, understand? You are not a wreck, Sherlock. You’re – oh for God’s sake, you’re _you._ And if you’re not enough, then you’ve got me. You’ve got John, you’ve got Mary – hell, and you’ve even got Mycroft if I have any say in it. Moriarty won’t even know what hit him when you come to call, with us behind you.”

Met with only his ragged breaths, she pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “Tell me you hear me.”

"I hear you," he whispered. After that, there was little more than silence. But with Molly Hooper beside him, it didn’t seem so terrifying.

* * *

The cold, high laugh of the monster echoed, but the sounds faded away as the door slammed shut. Muffled roars sounded, but she only smiled as she turned the lock. That smile widened when she turned to look at him.

"He’s locked away now." She stepped forward, and pressed a hand to his chest. "You can’t get in there even if you tried."

"I wouldn’t want to," he murmured, and she reached up to lightly, tenderly, press her lips to his.

* * *

In the darkness of 221b, out of the corridors of his mind palace, Sherlock’s arms wrapped tightly around Molly’s waist. A risk, certainly, letting his emotions be known with a raging psychopath on the loose, but she was stronger—deserved better—than him struggling in vain to hide her away from Moriarty’s eyes. And, if tonight proved anything, he needed her. If it was not for her strength, her determination or her skills, then it was for something that John, Mary nor Mycroft could’ve given him: hope.


	119. The Naked Man. (Drunklock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought of this on my own; egged on by conchepcion.

Lestrade guffawed, and almost spat out his beer.

“Oh my god! You can’t possibly think that actually worked!”

“I don’t think it worked – I _know_ it worked!” John protested, gulping back his drink. “If the numbers I got are anything to go by at least. He looked to Sherlock. “Now c’mon – I’ve shared my tricks – how about you? Any tricks to speak of? If you ever _had_ sex, that is.”

Sherlock gave a shrug, gazing into his pint. “A quick deduction usually did the trick.”

“Nah.” Lestrade shook his head, wiping at his chin. “You’re just saying that.”

Sherlock eyed him, giving a lopsided smile. “You’d be surprised how appealing intelligence can be to the fairer sex. It’s not just good looks and humour – two attributes I’m sure you no doubt utilised.”

“Ah, no.” Lestrade grinned. “That’s where you’re wrong. I did have one trick – not one that I’m exactly _proud_ of, mind – but it worked pretty much every time – well, two times out of three, really.”

“Sounds enthralling,” Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. “I suppose it involved a chat up line or two.”

“Nope – it was quite simple actually. Flatmate of mine called it ‘The Naked Man’.”

John almost choked on his drink, whereas Sherlock’s eyebrows just rose higher.

* * *

“It’s basically this stupid thing blokes do,” Meena explained, sipping at her vodka and tonic. “While you’re off in the bathroom sprucing up and making a last few minute adjustments – as you do – he’s busy stripping off his clothes in an attempt to surprise you.”

Molly scrunched up her nose in a righteous sense of disgust. “And blokes actually _believe_ that works?”

Meena gave a small shrug. “ _Well_ —”

“You didn’t,” Molly whispered, her mouth dropping open. “Who was he?”

“Some bloke from university. Michael – something. His flatmate was – oh – he was heaven – wanted to be a policeman apparently, according to Mike. Sad I never got to meet him again—”

Molly laughed, clicking her fingers in front of her friend’s face. “Meena, _focus._ Naked Man. Why’d you sleep with him?”

“I guess it was out of some vague pity for the bloke. Plus, we’d gone half and half on the meal that night, and I wasn’t letting myself go unshagged after spending almost 50 quid on him.” She laughed at the sight of Molly’s expression, which was some kind of mixture of disgust and disbelief. “Don’t be so righteous with me, Miss Molly Hooper. I’m sure you’ve got some horror stories to tell as well.”

Molly snorted out a giggle, nodding vigorously. “There was this one bloke, right, back in college…”

* * *

“No, no, no!” Lestrade slurred. “You may laugh, but ‘The Naked Man’ proved very successful for me in my younger years. Two out of three success rate, actually.”

“And there’s a two out of three success rate?” Sherlock asked, deeply unconvinced. Lestrade nodded.

“It comes out of three possible outcomes, you see.” He began to count the aforementioned ways off on his fingers. “One, the lady thinks you’re socially inept and takes pity on you—”

“You’d have to be, to think such a trick could work,” John muttered, causing a stifled laugh on Sherlock’s part. Lestrade, too tipsy to take John’s words to heart, continued.

“Two, they find humour in the situation – or three, which is the worst outcome, she gets completely offended and throws you out of her flat in the early hours of the morning.”

“And how many times were you left stranded outside flats in the early hours of the morning?” Sherlock asked, with a smirk. Lestrade grinned.

“About 10 – out of 30 tries, I might add.”

Sherlock blinked. Ten failures, out of thirty attempts? Not a bad ratio, all in all. Gulping back his pint, John shook his head and slapped Sherlock on the shoulder.

“C’mon. I need to be getting home – already feeling a bit – tipsy.”

Sherlock grumbled an assent of agreement and dragged himself to his feet as Lestrade sighed and stretched, swaying a little when he stood. “I should be getting home too – early start tomorrow.”

With a polite belch from Lestrade, the three of them lightly stumbled from the pub.

* * *

Naked. Naked, naked, _naked._ Molly giggled to herself and stuck her key into the lock for the sixth time, just barely holding onto the door when it swung open of its own accord. Molly paused. Strange. She rubbed at her eyes and, dropping her key somewhere near the key bowl, shrugged off her coat. The question of just how secure her flat was could wait until morning.

“Naked man,” she mumbled. Ridiculous concept. She drew her fingers through her hair as she moved, fondling the walls as she went, her eyes lidded with sleep, towards the kitchen. She blinked at the bright light of the open fridge and grabbed at the half-open tin of cat food.

“Toby!” she called, immediately shushing herself and letting out a breath of a giggle. She spoke her pet’s name again, softer this time. Her fingers traced against the light switch. “Toby, Toby – where are you, you furball? To-by – _Oh_ s _weet bloody Jesus!_ ”

Met by the crack of light overhead, and the following sight that flooded her eyeballs, Molly froze, her brain fuzzed with alcohol and a scream on her lips. Sherlock, jerked awake by her screech, scrabbled for a cushion, anything to cover _that_ , before hastily settling for crossing his legs. The cat food gracefully slipped from Molly’s numb fingers and onto the floor.

“Sherlock – w-what are you—” Her eyes narrowed. “Please don’t tell me this is the ‘Naked Man’.”

“Naked – Man? No, no.” He ruffled slightly at his curls, licking his lips. “Don’t be ludicrous Molly. I-I simply, got drunk this evening, with John and Lestrade – but on getting back to Baker Street, I was locked out, so I – I came to your flat – when I got here, I felt hot, so I – stripped and, well, I must’ve duly – passed out. On your sofa.”

“Oh.” Molly gave a slow nod and crouched down, averting her eyes from whatever might’ve met her (the possibilities including _that,_ which, from the glimpses she had just now caught, was unfortunately bigger than she’d ever estimated, not that she did ever estimate such things of course) and worked on scooping the cat food off her carpet. “Sorry, about accusing you of – well, it’s – you are – oh, forget it.”

“No, go on.” He frowned, tilting his head. “What were you saying?”

“I thought you were trying to – seduce me.” Pink spotted her cheeks.

“You thought—?”

“I know – stupid, right? We’re just friends – you don’t think of me in that – and I – I mean, can you imagine what might’ve happened if you _had_ been—” Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and her blush deepened. His gaze remained unnervingly steady. She straightened up, and gave a smile. “Well. Coffee?”

“Yes. Maybe when I’m – not naked?”

“Oh, yeah, of course. You get – you do that, and I’ll get the coffee. No need to tell me of course,” she added with a little laugh. “Black, two sugars! I know that off by heart.”

Sherlock nodded, and smiled as he bent down to retrieve his discarded coat, slipping his hand into his coat pocket. He froze when Molly’s head popped around the door, two mugs in hand.

“Plain boring mug,” she asked, “or stupidly snazzy mug?”

He shrugged. “Either’s fine.” The kitchen door slammed behind her and he let out a breath. Sitting back against the sofa, he began to type. On the other side of London, whilst struggling to advance up the steps towards his flat, Greg Lestrade’s phone chimed.

_Naked Man total failure. You need to revise your statistics. – SH._


	120. Break On Through to the Other Side. (Mirror!Verse AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Mirror!Verse Sherlolly.
> 
> This following fic is very dark. Just to warn you.

“You can’t do anything Molly,” Greg said, giving a sigh and rubbing at his temple.

“That’s the problem!” she snapped, tapping her foot impatiently, curling in against herself. Never had she felt so useless.

“It’s been five months – there aren’t any clues – no real leads. It’s been declared unsolved.”

And that was supposed to comfort her? “He’s out there,” she said softly. “I know he is. I can’t just sit about and do nothing. There has to be something I can do, Greg!”

“There is nothing!” Greg said his voice almost a shout. He sank forward, fixing his eyes on hers. His features were sunken with defeat. “Sherlock’s gone, Molly. We can’t do anything about it.”

* * *

Gibbering. Whimpering. _Fear._ That was what she heard, echoing off the walls and ringing in her ears. Molly blinked awake and her surroundings swam momentarily. Her bones ached from the impact of her fall. Rubbing absentmindedly at her arm and her shoulder, she struggled to her feet, slipping against the damp—and concrete, she noticed—floor. Far different from the dry pavement she had been walking along just moments before.

“Wrong – have to make it…” the voice babbled. Its speech was little more than a series of frightened whispers. Molly narrowed her eyes, listening out. It was coming from her right, tucked away in the corner. She crept forward. A figure, difficult to make out in the darkness, scrabbled back from her. The rattle of chains sounded.

“Hey!” Molly whispered, and she attempted a smile. “Hey. It’s okay. It’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Oh, they all say that.” Molly stopped, words frozen on her tongue. High, lilting, alternately soft and sharp, all depending on the owner’s mood.

“Jim? Moriarty?” She shook her head. He’d died, killed by Sherlock before he’d gone missing—Greg had confirmed as much to her. His head snapped up. Light from the window passed, glinted, over his forms. His arms were wedged to his sides, tightly wrapped in the material of a straitjacket. His features (everything about him) were muddied, dirty and ruined. Sweat and grease stuck to his skin and his hair like a disease and despite what he’d done, what misdeeds of his she had been told about, the sight of him, chained up like an animal, forced a snatch of sympathy from her. No human being, however cruel, deserved to be treated in this way.

“He took – we – fell…” Moriarty muttered and it was hard to believe that this was the same man who had thrown London into chaos and had used to feed, greedily, on the aftermath. Whatever had happened to him had erased that. He was a creature who had been taught to fear what once brought him a sick, twisted pleasure.

“Wrong,” he sang, as if he were singing a child’s lullaby. “Wrong place, wrong time – all wrong.”

“Wrong? I don’t—”

“WRONG!” Moriarty advanced forward, grinning widely. The chain at his neck tugged him back, and he fell to his knees. The smile still remained. “He made it all – wrong, you see.”

Hesitantly, Molly straightened up. “He?”

Moriarty tilted his head, pouting. “Doesn’t know. Molly Hooper doesn’t… _know._ ” His laughter was helplessly manic. “He’s going to be so happy, Molly – happy, happy, happy! But not happy too.”

She tried to speak, but any words felt, just, useless against the situation, against what she watched.

“You’re late,” Moriarty whispered, and he hiccupped a giggle. “Supposed to come through a week ago. He doesn’t like waiting.”

“What,” she breathed, shaking her head a little in disbelief, “what _happened_ to you?”

“Fell,” Moriarty declared, and he promptly fell onto his side, curling his legs up to his chest. “Fell down, down the rabbit hole.”

Rabbit hole? Moriarty’s face quickly crumpled and he fell back, letting out a low whine. “No way – no way back.”

So he was trapped here, wherever _here_ was. Moriarty continued to whimper; the sounds only increased when, behind her, a door creaked open. Quickly, Moriarty scrambled back into the shadows, visibly wincing at the sound of the footsteps.

“And who are you?” The question was calmly asked, but she froze all the same. She felt her features drain of colour as, slowly, she turned. An icy gaze was what she saw first. Brow furrowed, he stepped forward. He wore his trademark Belstaff, but his stare was different. It wasn’t either knowing or one of study. It was one that revelled in the sight of his nemesis chained up like a dog and driven mad. It was the look of a sadist; one that, in her universe, was worn by James Moriarty. Languidly, he peeled off his leather gloves, crouching low in front of her. His face lit up with a smile as the tip of his finger touched at the underside of her chin.

“Hello Molly.” He reached forward, until he cupped at the base of her jaw, his fingers curling tightly against her hair. “You have no idea how much I’ve looked forward to your arrival.”


	121. Beyond My Control. (Dangerous Liaisons AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr user thesweetcumbercrumb's prompt: meeting at a masquerade ball.
> 
> So obviously, I went with a Dangerous Liasions AU. Shades of Adlock and Sherlolly in this one.

The music—string led, jovial, overly romantic—filled the air, and the guests, bedecked in jewels, swathed in the fashion of the age, masks covering their pretty faces, danced and whispered among themselves. Up above the main floor of festivities, Irene casually sipped at her wine and delicately drew her fan against her features.

The first she knew of his presence was the sensation of his fingertips drawing against the line of her neck.

“You used to be able to conceal your boredom far more deftly.”

“Mm. I suppose it’s lucky I’m not really trying.” Irene smiled as the intruder to her peace circled around her and kissed the back of her hand in greeting.

“I hear you got married again,” he remarked, stepping back to survey the dance taking place below. Irene nodded. His eyes did not remove themselves from the dance when he spoke again.

“Does the poor fellow know of your – tastes?”

“And doesn’t care a jot about them,” Irene declared proudly. “He only wished for a trophy wife – so I’m allowed to come and go as I please. Far better than my previous husband.”

“God, look at them,” he mused with a sigh, running his hand against his dark curls (unlike his contemporaries, he ignored the need for the usual wigs). “I suppose it must be entirely easy for them. Their minds don’t race – they can content themselves with dancing and gossip.”

“Whereas we, poor souls that we are, must indulge in games.” Irene shifted herself toward him, tucking her chin against his shoulder. He turned his head to look at her, a light smile on his lips.

“And what game shall we be playing tonight?”

Irene gave a gentle shrug and glanced over the guests once more, her features soon lightening into a smile as her gaze fell on the perfect subject for her companion.

“Aha,” she said softly. “I believe I’ve found the perfect subject for you.”

She pointed down into the crowd. “What do you think of her?”

Obediently, he followed her line of sight and, on seeing the creature she had picked out, he straightened up, his smile growing. The creature in question was, for the moment, involved in a dance. Her dress, a pastel shade of pink edged with white lace, was the height of fashion. In fact, every part of her was carefully arranged into the most perfectly superficial appearance of beauty. Her true beauty however, transcended it, and all through the use of a well-placed polite smile or an incline of the head.

He folded his arms over his chest and shrugged. “She’s pretty enough – plain and virtuous, most likely – I’ve had plenty like her before.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” Irene took in the sight of her chosen subject, happily laughing with her dancing companion as she was. She hummed softly in thought. “But she’s different – I’m sure of it. Different enough to make the game fun.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. She is plain, and frankly, not worth my time.”

“She’s worth my time, surely.”

He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. “What’s her name?”

“Oh, you’ll have to find that out for yourself,” Irene said lightly, and Sherlock gave a short, low laugh as he closed the distance between them with a single step. Lips inches from hers, he reached up, tracing his finger against the hollow of her cheek. Below them, the dance was coming to an end.

“You – for a stranger?”

She turned her head away. “There’s no fun in offering oneself up for a friend.”

“What if she proves an easy conquest?”

She doubted that very much, but she could let him think that way, for the time being. “Then you’ll have me all the quicker, won’t you?”

She could see the fool’s mouth beginning to water. His gaze flicked towards the subject, and he gave a small sigh, as if the very thought of seducing her was tiresome, but an exhaustion he would put himself through only for her. He did know how to wear a mask well. She had to give him that.

“And you promise yourself to me,” he asked, “if I can win her?”

“Win her, and bed her. I will require written proof, however.” She paused, considering him. “Perhaps a letter of some sort.”

Arrogant as ever, he only grinned at this particular stipulation. “Easier said than done.”

“Then go,” she said with a sigh. “The dance has ended, and you wouldn’t want to miss your new friend, now would you?”

He answered with a bow of the head and a swift departure. Irene smirked and watched as he advanced slowly through the crowd towards his intended target and tapped her on the shoulder. Molly Hooper, as she was wont to do, greeted him with a dainty smile; and when he turned away to deal with an interrupting duchess, she flicked up her gaze towards the upper level. Irene smirked and raised an eyebrow. Contented, Molly turned back to her soon-to-be conquest.

Irene sipped back the rest of her wine. Oh, but this would be wickedly fun indeed.


	122. In the Psychologist's Chair.

“I’m not really meant to be here…”

“You’d be surprised how many people tell me that. Now please, describe the event, in your own words.”

“Okay.” Molly fidgeted in her seat, smoothing her palms against her trousers. “I’d been working for a while – a fair few hours and I was – God, I was exhausted.”

“How long would you say you’d been up?”

“About – um – 12 hours? Sherlock had needed my help on a case – he wanted me to trace some DNA found at a crime scene, and I did suggest he use one of the interns to help, just for a couple of hours, but he went into a huge sulk, so I pretty much had to help him – but I also had all this paperwork to do, so I, you know, started to multitask.”

The psychologist nodded sombrely. “As is your right.”

“I began to staple some forms – and Sherlock was beside me. He reached over and my reaction was just, well, automatic really… So I didn’t mean to staple his hand.”

“Aha.” The psychologist, bumping her glasses up her nose, thumbed at her bottom lip in thought. “Tell me Molly – for how long have you been working with Sherlock?”

“Ooh, um, about—”

The door to the office swung open, preventing her full answer. Sherlock, his expression thunderous, swirled in and strode towards the desk and he slammed his palms against the surface, eyeballing the psychologist.

“You have Molly Hooper here under false pretences,” he spat. “There is no need for any psychological evaluation, she is perfectly sane and competent and the fact that you have her in here, uselessly answering questions and no doubt peering into nondescript ink blobs is clearly a sign of just how bored you are. I demand that you let her go.”

The psychologist did not cower, but indeed only leaned back in her chair, slowly folding and unfolding her glasses. “And for what reason is that?”

“Because she can do far more important things by helping me in the lab than she can by answering your stupid questions!”

The psychologist studied Sherlock, but she was still not intimidated. Molly watched the whole situation with a growing sense of despair.

“Tell me, Mr Holmes, when did this latent need for Miss Hooper’s company – and only her company – start, do you think?”

“I don’t – _have_ – any ‘latent need’!” Sherlock huffed. “She’s the only one competent enough! No-one else is good enough.”

“Oh?” The psychologist raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “And why exactly will no-one else do? Because from what I read in my notes, the procedures you need Miss Hooper’s expertise for are really rather banal – testing of DNA, of different material compounds, et cetera, et cetera. In truth, all of those could be done by an intern or lower level worker of some sort. But Miss Hooper tells me that when she suggested that you use an intern, you were really rather vehement that _she_ was the one to assist you. And, on finding out that Miss Hooper had been sent up for psychological evaluation, you storm my office and demand that I ‘let her go’.”

Sherlock visibly stiffened, and straightened up. The psychologist sighed slightly and quietly shut the folder in front of her.

“Mr Holmes, I am only a qualified professional with a mere 25 years of experience under my belt, but I know a man suffering from subconscious – perhaps even repressed – romantic desire when I see one.”

For the first time in her life, Molly found herself witness to something entirely odd. Silently, Sherlock nodded once to the psychologist, mumbled a “thank you” and practically sprinted from the office, his cheeks burning red. Contented, the psychologist looked back to her.

“Miss Hooper, I recommend a week of good night’s sleep and that you stop waiting around and ask your man out for a drink.”

“He’s not my—”

“He _wants_ to be.” The psychologist smiled. “Why don’t you let him?”


	123. The Fuzzy End of the Lollipop. (Some Like it Hot AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super silly AU, thought up by myself and **conchepcion**.

Greg punched at his pillow and squeezed his eyes shut. The giggling up above him, unfortunately, continued. A whole train, filled to the brim with girls, girls with eyes, girls with bosoms, girls with _both_ , and he was the one to be left out in the cold.

“ _Yaarghh!_ ”

Greg rolled onto his side, drawing aside the curtain. He could barely register the thump of a body before a gangly thing, panting heavily, scrambled into his bunk.

“They won’t leave me alone,” Sherlock hissed. Greg sighed and raised himself up.

“What are you complaining about? You’ve got all the girls on the train in your bunk!”

“For God’s sake, you can _have_ them!” Sherlock whispered, crossly adjusting his wig. “They talk! And giggle. I’m trying to think!”

The curtain was wrenched open and Molly Hooper smiled at them.

“Hey, what’s going on?” She gave a laugh, sipping back at her drink. “You’re missing out on some great booze, believe me.”

“Oh,” Sherlock replied, his voice automatically going an octave higher, “we just decided to let you girls have your _own_ party.” He waved a hand.

“You run along now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous Sherl!” Greg cried, and he gave a giggle and patted at Sherlock’s arm. A minute glower crossed Sherlock’s features before he skilfully wiped it away. “She’s just having a laugh, don’t you worry – come join us! It’s so much safer in here than up there, you know!”

Molly glanced up at the bunk where the main ‘party’ was continuing on. Grimacing a little, she nodded. “I suppose so.”

Gulping back the rest of her drink, she crawled forward. The bunk itself was tiny, and three was most certainly a crowd. Not that Greg was going to complain, considering that Molly, in order to burrow inside, had snuggled up close against his left side, drawing her legs up to her chin, revealing a tantalising expanse of pale white thigh. She smiled innocently at the pair of them, biting at her bottom lip.

“Gosh – it’s a bit cosy isn’t it?”

“Oh, that’s fine. We can all cuddle up for warmth if we need to, can’t we?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and curled up tighter against himself. “I’m sure you’re already more than warm enough, _Georgiana._ ”

Molly bit back a laugh. “You know, this reminds me of when I was a kid – whenever I was cold, I’d slip into my sister’s bed and snuggle up with her.”

“And you’re more than welcome to do the same here,” Greg said sweetly, earning a snort from Sherlock. Greg bristled. “It’s _true!_ We girls have got to stick together – haven’t we Molly?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Molly admitted with a shrug. “I haven’t been with a girl band before. I’ve only been with male bands up until now. Never known the camaraderie that comes with being in a girl band.”

“Why the change?” As Sherlock had remained silent up until that point, his question came as somewhat of a surprise.

“Too many failed relationships." Molly sat up, giving a shrug. "That’s the thing with being with a male band – you can’t trust them or yourself. Trust me – never try it, either of you. And I go mad for violinists. I just can’t help it.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Violinists?”

“I think I’m going to go and check on the other girls,” Greg muttered, clearly in a sulk at the attention currently not being given to him. “See if they need any help getting rid of that bourbon.”

“Mm-hm.” Molly sighed sadly, shifting closer to Sherlock's side as Greg crawled out of the bunk, cheerily greeting all the girls above. “They only have to play a few notes and that’s it – gone. Every time, I fall for it. And they always turn out bad. Irresponsible dreamers or just downright cold fishes. I got engaged to the last one.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “What happened?”

“It fizzled out. He never told me why. We just went along, day after day, until I finally woke up one day to see him packing his bags.” Molly reached up, rubbing at the back of her neck. Her eyes glimmered with tears, but she quickly wiped them away, trying for a smile. “So that’s why I’m here, on this train and with this band."

"To... get away from your ex?"

"No! No, I don't need to get away from anyone." Molly beamed up at him, snuggling closer and crossing her arms over her chest. Sherlock swallowed thickly. Molly, failing to notice any discomfort on his part, chuckled gently to herself. "Who knows? Maybe here, I’ll stop losing.”

Whatever reply Sherlock might’ve had to give was prevented by the quite sudden, entirely loud squeal of the emergency brake.


	124. Two Different Attitudes. (Molly Hooper/Irene Adler)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soyeahso's prompt: Molly/Irene moving in together.

Being the daughter of a military man, Irene liked to think she was used to the idea of moving. Her mother had always made it an efficient process; she’d spend about two weeks organising their belongings before she divided them into equal piles and scribbled her looped handwriting on the cardboard boxes they would use to move (others used the same boxes over and over again, but her mother preferred to use new every time). Before long, everything would’ve been packed away, the house would be empty and they’d be in the van, beginning the drive to their new home.

So when it was still a week until moving date and Irene walked into her girlfriend’s flat to see clothes strewn about the living room floor, books piled up and Toby sat high on a chair, menacingly swishing his tail and Molly in the centre of the living room, typing away on her laptop without a care in the world, Irene almost— _almost_ —had a slight heart attack.

”What the hell is this?”

Molly’s head snapped up, her eyes wide. “I promise I was packing.”

"Oh, really?" Irene raised an eyebrow and wandered over to her girlfriend.

"Yes! It’s just – I was watching the news while I was doing it, and this really interesting item about stem cells came on, and I—”

"Enough," Irene said quickly. A quirk of a smile appeared on her lips and she grabbed at an empty box. "Clearly, you’ve been lagging."

Molly groaned, sticking out her tongue, but Irene only raised an eyebrow. She got to her feet and stood in front of her girlfriend.

"I’m the daughter of a military man, Miss Hooper," she declared, not so delicately dropping books into the box. "And you are going to be packed by the end of today, whether you like it or not."

"Irene—"

"Mm?"

"You can stop panicking."

She laughed lightly. “I’m not _panicking._ ”

"Because I do want to live with you – I’m just shit at packing."

"Oh, really?" Irene smiled. She wouldn’t admit it, and would continue to deny it until approximately over a year into their living arrangement, but there was often a slight wave of relief imbibed within her whenever Molly turned her especially blunt tongue in her direction. It allowed her time to pause, gave her time to reflect. Molly apparently could read her thoughts for, with one of her sweet, small smiles, she put away her laptop and moved towards Irene, held her face in her hands and kisses her soundly.

"Yes." Trailing her fingers down her body, she entwined her fingers with Irene’s. "Now – do you wanna teach me how to properly fold clothes?"


	125. Much Ado about Sherlolly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Sherlolly, pretending to hate each other.

“Sherlock, you’re sulking.”

“Who said I was sulking?”

Mary shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know – maybe the fact you’re the host of this party and you’ve barely said a word to anyone – in fact, you’ve spent most of your time glaring at Molly.”

“She was wrong,” Sherlock said stiffly, shifting in his seat. By the sofa, Molly laughed, flicking her hair over her shoulder. Her laughter died away when she caught Sherlock’s eye. Narrowing her eyes, she turned away from him. “The victim was murdered. It wasn’t accidental, or a suicide. It’s not a complicated situation to grasp.”

“No it’s not,” Mary replied, gulping back her drink. She shook her head, sighing. “When are you two going to just – _admit_ – it?”

“Admit what?”

A cock of an eyebrow served as her reply, and Sherlock shifted in his seat again. “John’s been talking to you, hasn’t he?”

“Nope. I’m not blind, Sherlock.”

Sherlock, fingers tucked under his chin, opened an eye. “Haven’t you got guests to mingle with?”

“ _Your_ guests,” she reminded him, and she heard him give a slight chuckle. Patting him gently on the shoulder, she stood and moved back towards her husband.

“Still no luck?” he murmured.

“He’s like a puppy facing a mirror. We have to do something.”

John grinned. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out his phone. “Got just the thing.”

* * *

“So you really don’t fancy Molly then?” Sherlock flicked his gaze up to see Mary stood over him, a smirk on her lips.

“I’m married to my work.” He repeated his solemn vow, made soon after he’d solved his first ever case with the Yard, but as his eyes briefly shifted to glance towards Molly as he spoke, it was a little less convincing. Mary nodded. Casually, she flipped the phone in her hand over and over.

“Molly?” She glanced over her shoulder. “Come over here for a minute, will you?”

Rising to her feet, tucking her hair behind her ear, Molly’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Oh, just got a little thing to show you. A text, actually.” She moved to Molly. Behind her, there was a large thump, followed by a series of grunts as John and Lestrade, as one, tackled an advancing Sherlock to the ground and duly sat on him, pinning him in place. Uselessly, the consulting detective struggled against their weight but eventually settled for planting his face into the carpet of 221b as Mary, with a knowing smile, pressed the phone into Molly’s palm. She pointed to the screen.

“That text – from Sherlock – was sent about – two days ago?”

“Yeah,” John nodded, “two days, about that.”

“Molly!” Sherlock grunted and craned up his neck. “Don’t _read_ —”

“Of course I love her—”

“ _Bugger._ ”

Molly’s brow creased. “Despite her faults, of course. SH.” She dropped the phone to her side, tilting her head down to stare at the still pinned Sherlock. Lestrade winced.

“Not exactly the best first impression to make, mate.”

“Says the divorcee.”

“ _Despite her faults?_ ” Molly repeated. “Well, you’re no competition for Shakespeare, I’ll say that.”

“I never claimed to be a wordsmith,” Sherlock muttered. “And, being fair, that was a message sent between friends. _It was not meant for public consumption._ ”

“And by public, you mean mine.” Molly folded her arms over her chest. “And, if I might ask, what faults are you so willing to tolerate?”

Sherlock grunted and glanced up at the two men sat atop of him. “If you don’t mind?”

“Not at all.” Lestrade jumped to his feet, promptly followed by John, leaving Sherlock to slowly clamber to his feet. He eyed Molly carefully.

“Molly – when I say you have faults… what I meant was that everyone has faults.”

“Mine are just more tolerable than most?”

“Exactly. They’re—” Sherlock’s cheeks spotted pink, and his gaze lowered. “Somewhat endearing.”

“Oh. Great!”

“Really?”

Molly’s smile slipped. “No.”

Turning on her heel, she stalked out of the living room and into the kitchen, pouring another generous portion of wine into her glass.

“Don’t know why you’re acting so high and mighty, Molly,” Mary said idly. She withdrew a second phone from her pocket, scrolling through it. “You’re just as bad—”

Molly squeaked, seeing Mary extend her phone towards Sherlock, whose features fell into an intrigued frown. Dumping her glass on the table, she ran forward.

“Give me that—”

Sherlock spun around, and she promptly bumped straight into his torso. Glaring up at him, she made a useless grab for the phone. Using his height to full advantage—it was an immature move, far below his usual standard, but needs did must—he stretched up on tiptoe, holding the phone aloft. Molly huffed, jumping up, grabbing at the lapels of his jacket in some valiant effort to bring the yearned for phone down to her height.

“You really don’t need—”

“Oh, I think I do.” Eyebrow raised, Sherlock grinned a smarmy grin and tilted his head back, peering at the phone screen. “I hate how much I love him sometimes…”

“Sherlock, you utter bast—”

He merrily continued reading. “Especially when he’s being such an _arse._ ”

Finally, he dropped the phone down to his side and Molly grabbed at it, clutching it tight to her chest, her cheeks beetroot red. She only looked up when she felt his hand cup the underside of her cheek, his thumb brushing at her hair. Smiling, he leaned forward, brushing the tip of her nose with his.

“Hardly Shakespeare, now is it Molly?”

She blushed redder. “Shut up.”

Before he had the chance for a retort, she ducked forward and provided him with a long overdue kiss.


	126. If You Don't Mind...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Halloween!Sherlolly. Sherlock as the Pumpkin King, Molly as Sally from "Nightmare Before Christmas".

It was snowing. A symbol of peace between the two holidays, it fell quickly, and soon left the town of Halloween covered in a thick blanket of the stuff. The townspeople, joyous in their puzzlement over such an event, played happily with one another.

Molly however, slipped away from the crowds, her thoughts having overtaken any urge to play. Stepping inside the town cemetery, she headed up the hill towards its crest where the yellowed moon hung large in the inky black sky, hugging at herself, allowing herself to be engulfed in the moonlight. She’d often found solace here, in the moments she’d squirreled away from her prison in Dr. Magnussen’s cellar. With the snow however, she felt something new, an odd sensation she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

"Forgive me for saying this, but you look rather peaceful up there."

Peace. Yes, that was it. And now it had a name, it didn’t feel so odd. She breathed a sigh, smiling. She turned her head. At the base of the hill, Sherlock stood, his tall and lean figure half hidden by shadow.

”I am,” she replied, as a snowflake gently settled against her arm. “Did you – want something, Sherlock?”

"I, uh…" He ducked his head, biting at his bottom lip as he dug his heel against the snowy ground. "Wanted to apologise, actually."

"Apologise?" Her gaze flitted towards the main crowds. “To them, you mean?”

“To you, actually.”

He began his gradual ascent of the hill. She blinked. Snow swirled around her. “Oh?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. I – I should’ve listened to you.”

“Sorry, what?” She had heard him perfectly, but it wasn’t often that Sherlock admitted himself to be in the wrong. He raised an eyebrow at her.

“You know what I said, Molly.”

Her dimples deepened, and she fidgeted a little with her skirts. “You said something about an apology.”

“I did. You told me my true home was here.” He looked to her, with a wry smile. “The events of tonight make me think you were right. And, if you don’t mind…”

Slowly, his hand reached out towards her. Her smile widened, and she intertwined her fingers with his. She looked back to the moon, now stretched wide along the landscape.

“I don’t mind at all.”


	127. Bound. (Dark!Sherlock Part 4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: More of my Dark!lock universe. This is the final part to it - I'm probably unlikely to write more. I did however, post a playlist/soundtrack for it on 8tracks, which you can access here: http://8tracks.com/occasionally-creative/bound

_I just can't stand it babe_  
_The way you're always runnin' 'round_  
_I just can't stand it, the way you always put me down_  
_I put a spell on you because you're mine_ ~ Screamin' Jay Hawkins, “I Put a Spell on You”.

To others, it seemed like nothing in her life had changed. She was only a new colleague to them, transferred over from London for unspecified reasons that they simply adored to speculate. They didn’t know that she had, in her wake, left a trail of dead bodies, put there by the man, the psychopath who had deemed himself her protector. They didn’t know that they were only alive because she had finally stopped running; had stopped fighting.

The door to her flat opened, and a cheerful voice called her name.

“Kitchen,” she called flatly over her shoulder. Footsteps sounded and he, shrugging his coat off and draping it over a nearby kitchen chair, grinned. He rolled up his sleeves, head tilted.

“Now, is that any real way to greet me?” he asked, malice as always hidden in the bright, teasing tone. He wrapped his palms against her shoulders, squeezing at her skin. Wordlessly, she tilted her head.

He drew one hand away, touching at her hair with the pads of his fingers to draw it back until her neck lay exposed to him. He kissed it, his touch soft and affectionate. His hands dropped from her shoulders, descending to her waist. He always held her tightly; it was a silent, spiteful reminder that she was his, and only his.

Such reminders only existed because he knew the truth. For all his affections, for all his gifts, for all the odd domesticity, she wouldn’t love him. He stole kisses from her, burned her skin with each caress he might have made, but she would never love him. She would never give herself over to him. That was her small victory.

He tucked his chin against her neck and smiling, asked what they were having for dinner.

“Why do you care?” Her reply was short, sullen and his brows furrowed as he looked to her, his blue eyes icy, and she could almost feel the force of her heart, hammering against her ribcage. His mouth cracked into a grin, and he chuckled, the anger gone.

“Oh, you should be nicer to me Molly,” he said lightly, tapping quickly at her nose. His smile remained as he sighed and moved back towards the kitchen table, settling down on one of the chairs. The familiar heavy clunk of his gun sounded against the table. “I have, after all, been hard at work all day.”

She served the dinner without protest, and sat opposite him. Casually picking at the food in front of him, taking irregular bites, he spoke to her just as he did on each day he forced her to perform like this. All the while, his gun would always be there, lying quite innocently beside him, always just out of her reach, but easy for him to pick up and wield if anything were to happen that might’ve disturbed their peace.

“I had to deal with Rookwood today. You remember me telling you about Rookwood, don’t you?”

She nodded, swallowing back her food. “The enforcer. You were having trouble with him.”

“Turns out he’s been selling secrets about my organisation to my rivals.” He stabbed at a piece of lamb. “That’s the trouble with hired thugs – at one time or another, they end up getting greedy.”

“I suppose you took him out?” she asked evenly. The dullness of her tone wasn’t a surprise to either of them. She had already witnessed the deaths of her loved ones. The death of a stranger couldn’t hurt her further.

“Obviously. How do you think you would’ve done it?”

He often asked that question. At first, he had delighted in seeing her squirm, see her swallow down the urge to tell him to go to hell. She stopped that long ago—but it was part of the routine. Part of the charade. Her eyes settled on the gun.

“Not immediately,” she started. “I guess you needed to make sure he was a traitor – no use going on rumour – so you probably fed him some false information. Once your rivals acted on it, you had the evidence you needed to execute Rookwood.”

He smiled a slow, knowing smile. “Hm. Clever. But I’ll see you later. Have to go see a man about a murder.” He stood, scooping up his coat and he shrugged it back on, flipping up his collar. She bowed her head. Maybe this time, he wouldn’t say it.

She felt his hand cup at her jaw, and against every scrap of her will, she turned her head to face him. His smile widened.

“I love you,” he murmured. He waited. Silence met his patience. He repeated the sentiment, firmer this time, his features darkening. Molly turned her head away, and his hand slipped from her, back down to his side. With a sigh, he kissed her forehead, picked up his gun and left.

* * *

She knew something was wrong when he stepped inside. There was no false performance of affection; no attempts at engaging her in conversation. She should’ve felt relief, but instead, his silence nagged at her. Her eyes lingered on the empty space where his gun usually lay.

“I have to leave the country.” She flicked her gaze up, and almost jumped on seeing the way in which his eyes burned into hers, studying her, drinking her in. For the first time, his gaze did not contain the glitter of mania or the shine of malice, but something much, much darker. One might’ve described it as sadness. She lowered her gaze, her fingers twisting around the cloth in her hand.

“Oh.”

His eyes stayed on her, even when she turned away. His chair scraped against the kitchen floor and he stood. His footsteps towards her were precise; calculated. The silence still chipped at her, chasing away any feeling, leaving her with nothing but questions. She wondered when he was going; how long he was going to be gone for; if he would return.

“Molly.” She turned her head. He stood beside her, leaned against the kitchen worktop. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he leaned forward and Molly could almost see the Sherlock she had once known, loved and would’ve done anything for. Hopelessly, he smiled. His gaze settled on her lips.

She didn’t know why. Maybe she was trying to capture that hint of him, _her_ Sherlock, that tangible link to a fast fading memory before it disappeared. His hands flew to her hips, his lips warm and soft against hers, savouring every taste, every touch she made against him. His touch still burned her—this was wrong, it wasn’t her Sherlock, her Sherlock never loved her, never worshipped her like this, it was wrong, wrong, _wrong_ —but she pawed at him still, her fingers trailing up his torso, pressing against his chest as he eased her closer.

She pulled away, but he didn’t protest. She waited, waited for him to manipulate her, intimidate her until she was nothing more than a silent obedient puppet, ready for him to pull at her strings and make her dance.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, and she saw it. That look was there again, but now she knew. It wasn’t sadness. It was acceptance.

“You’re only sorry you have to leave me.” Her lips quirked. “Your own little puppet.” _  
_

He chuckled. “Perhaps.”

Letting his hands fall away, he turned and departed without another word.

When, a few weeks later, her phone rang and she rushed to answer it and heard the cold, clinical voice of a lawyer, everything seemed to fall into place.

* * *

“He left a will,” the lawyer explained, with a slight sniff. Molly remained stood, her hands clutched against the phone. “There are only a few benefactors in the will – mostly financial – but you, Miss Hooper, are the main.”

She frowned. “The main benefactor?”

“Mm, yes. The will actually stipulates that you are to inherit the entirety of his estate.”

“Sorry? His – estate?”

“Businesses, money, the lot. You’re a very wealthy woman, Miss Hooper.”

How do you think you would’ve done it? She could see him, in her mind’s eye, asking it even now (even when she knew his rotting corpse now lay in a ditch somewhere, that beautiful brain no more). It had been a question she had become so accustomed to being asked, that her answers had become ingrained. It had become instinctual, to think like a criminal mastermind. Like _him._

Day by day, little by little, he had erased Molly Hooper from her mind and moulded her into something all the more terrifying.

Gradually, Molly began to do the only thing she could do: she began to laugh. The lawyer repeated her name; asked her if everything was alright, but her laughter continued. For a long time, she didn’t stop.

Clever man. What a clever, clever man indeed.


	128. The Sweet End of the Lollipop. (Some Like It Hot AU, Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A follow up/companion piece to "The Fuzzy End of the Lollipop" that I couldn't stop myself from writing, however much I tried. Shades of Mystrade in this.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs, and the lift bell trilled. Greg touched at his wig (he really thought he’d said goodbye to the damn thing) as they stepped out of the lift, and made for the exit, only to feel himself being roughly tugged back.

"This place is crawling with mobsters, literally and figuratively," Sherlock hissed. "We can’t just walk out of the front door!"

"Well what do you suggest we do? We can’t simply  _stand_  here in the middle of the bloody hallway.”

Sherlock glanced about the lobby. No mobsters as yet, except for the two running back down the stairs, and a third slipping out from the doors of the kitchen, pistol in hand and running towards the first two.

"Did you find ‘em?"

"No – they slipped out of our hands. Damn broads."

"They ain’t broads, they’re  _men!_ " the third hissed, gripping his gun tighter. "Look, we’re watching the roads, the airport and the railways. We’ll find ‘em."

"There’s only one thing we can do," Sherlock said finally. "Get to that phone booth, over there." He tugged Greg forwards. "You need to make a call."

"To who?"

Sherlock leaned forward, eyeing Greg. “You heard what they said.”

"Of course I did! I’m not deaf!"

"Then you’ll know that they’re not watching boats."

"So who am I calling?" Greg snapped. "The bloody coastguard?"

Sherlock sighed and shoved Greg towards the booth. “My brother. You’re going to tell him you want to elope.”

"You want me to tell your brother I want to  _elope?_ " Greg hissed, voice shrill. "That’s your plan?!"

"I’ve always thought of you as a sister-in-law." Sherlock pushed at Greg’s shoulder. "Now get in there!"

From inside the booth, his fingers working at the dial, Greg scowled. “I’ll get you back for this,  _Shirley_ , so help me I will.”

Sherlock smirked. “I see you’ve already memorised the number,  _Georgiana._ ”

"I’m through with love, I’ll never fall again…" Sherlock’s head snapped up. Slow, melancholy jazz played in the distance, beyond a set of doors. The familiar band poster,  _Magnificent Martha and her Ragtime Dolls_ , stood proudly before them. The voice, that sweetly familiar voice, still sang. “Said adieu to love, don’t ever call again, for I must have you or no-one…”

Sherlock was moving before he knew it, through the doors and down the stairs. The ballroom opened up to him as he descended. There was the band, there was Martha.

"And so I’m through with love." And there was Molly. Her skin shone and her dress glittered under the light of the ballroom, but every syllable sung from her mouth ached with her hurt. He’d thought it would be easy, to abandon her here.

"I’ve locked my heart, I’ll keep my feelings there—"

How wrong he had been.

Footsteps sounded on the steps behind him, and an arm grabbed at him.

"Sherlock!" Greg urged. Sherlock supposed it was lucky it hadn’t been a mobster. Yet he couldn’t find it in him to move. Greg tugged at his sleeve again. "Sherlock, c’mon! Your brother’s waiting for me, by the pier! C’mon!"

"I’ve stocked my heart with icy, frigid air, and I mean to care for no-one – because I’m through with love."

Sherlock finally moved, down the last few steps, closer towards the ballroom. Greg’s grip against his arm loosened.

"Sherlock," he said, caution in his voice. "What the hell are you doing?"

Sherlock glanced at him over his shoulder, continuing forward. “Go to the pier, I’ll meet you there.”

Even from where he was stood, he saw Molly’s eyes brim with tears. “Why did you lead me to think you could care? You didn’t need me, you had your share of slaves around you to hound and swear, with deep emotion, devotion to you…”

"W-what?" The pieces slowly coming together in his brain, Greg stepped forward. "Sherlock, have you gone completely mad?"

Sherlock’s mouth lilted with a smile. “Perhaps.”

"Goodbye to spring," Molly sang high and clear, "and all it meant to me. It can never bring the thing that used to be, for I must have you or no-one—"

He didn’t stay to hear any more of Greg’s protestations but stepped onto the stage, weaving through the members of the band, passing an oblivious Martha.

"And so I’m through with love." Molly sang the last few notes softly and sweetly, hanging her head, and Sherlock could feel his whole body ache. The tune played as he surged forward and let his fingers clasp around her arm. Molly looked up, and her eyes narrowed in surprise.

"Shirley?"

“ _Not_  Shirley,” he murmured, and when her eyes widened, he smiled. Reaching forward, curling his arm around her waist, he drew her into a sweet, soft embrace, her mouth warm on his.

She drew away, her brown-eyed gaze dazed, contented. Another name fell from her lips in a whisper. “Sherlock…”

"STAMFORD!" Martha’s surprised yell of her co-manager’s name rang round the now silent ballroom, bringing everything to a juddering, stuttered halt. The three mobsters heading down the stairway didn’t help either.

"Hey!" one of them called. "That ain’t a dame!"

Quickly, Sherlock grabbed at Molly’s hand.

"Come with me."

Her grip around his hand tightened and together, the two ran from the ballroom, up the stairs, through the lobby and out of the hotel.

* * *

"Wait!" The bellowed call echoed around the pier. Sat at the wheel of the speedboat, Mycroft looked around to see his young brother—who was for some reason dressed like a woman—running down the pier, holding the hand of a breathless and flushed young woman.

"Sherlock, what—"

"Long story, no time, go!" Sherlock climbed into the back of the boat, followed quickly by the young woman.

"Come on," Georgiana said eagerly, "let’s go!"

Ripping the wig from his head, Sherlock looked to the young woman. “Molly, I’m so sorry, I’ve got you completely caught up in this, I was wrong to take you—”

"No you weren’t," the girl insisted, learning towards Sherlock, clutching at his coat, "you were absolutely right. You saw me on that stage, you saw how miserable I was—"

"Y-you – you need to go back Molly, I’m not even a violin player, I’m a consulting detective—"

The girl threw her arms around Sherlock’s neck and kissed him deeply, stopping all manner of words. “Perfect,” she murmured. “I’m sick of violin players.”

All of his brother’s resolve seemed to break down with those words and, throwing his wig over his shoulder, he held the girl close and kissed her all over again. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"We’re above such things Georgiana, I’m sure. And I called my mother today. She was beyond happy when I told her I was to be married."

"You told her?!" his fiancée squeaked. "You-you couldn’t!"

"I could, and I did. She wants you to wear her wedding dress." He scanned his fiancée’s form. "We’ll have it altered; you’re a little taller than her."

"I’m more than just ‘a little taller’ than your mother Mycroft!" Georgiana shook her head. "In fact, there a lot of ways in which me and your mother differ."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

"I smoke! I smoke all the time, like a damn chimney pot! You told me your mother hates smoking."

"Only when I or my brother does it. Speaking of which, might you care to explain why my brother is dressed as a woman?"

Georgiana ran her hands over face, groaning. Mycroft tilted his head.

"Something wrong?"

She threw her head back and, flexing her shoulders, looked at him.

"For the same reason I’m dressed as a woman." She gave a heavy, resigned sigh and reached up. In one single motion, she tugged and her platinum blonde hair fell away to reveal a matted set of silver-grey hair. "I’m a man! I’m DI Greg Lestrade, I work in London as part of the homicide department, I accidentally witnessed a mass murder by the mob three months ago in New York with your brother, and have ever since been undercover as a bass player for the female band, Marvellous Martha Hudson and her Ragtime Dolls!"

"Oh," Mycroft said his tone calm. He gave a shrug. "I  _knew_  that.”


	129. So Close (Enchanted AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something semi-angsty, semi-fluffy and entirely cracky that I wrote for conchepcion's birthday, based on the end sequence of "Enchanted".

"Molly," he pants, soaked to the bone, a sword in hand and a dead wizard (turned dragon) on the ground. The rain thunders against the rooftop they’re on, she can barely see him, but she can hear every word. "You didn’t answer my question."

Her face falls into a frown. “What question?”

* * *

There he is. Right at the fringes of the room, bedecked—Jesus, she was even taking on his vocabulary now—in blue and silver and she’s reminded, thrown back, to another time which was only seven days ago but feels like a lifetime ago now, where she, rain soaked, saw him sit on the sofa, prop his legs up on her coffee table and remarked, “You know, for a prince – you’re not very –  _princely._ ” Quickly, she shakes her head (can’t think about that now). She brushes at the skirt of her dress and let out a breath, straightening her back. One, two, three, four, she descends the steps. It’s only been a week she’s known him; no-one can form a strong enough attachment to someone in only a few days to truly upset at the knowledge of their leaving, that’s impossible.

“Molly.”

She turns, and there he is, walking towards her and she knows that if anyone was to cause her to defy the impossible, it would be him. He proffers a hand, smiling when she eyes it carefully. He quirks an eyebrow.

“My way of thanking my host.”

“A simple ‘thank you’ would suffice, really.”

“Yes, but,” he tilts his head, “traditions.”

She allows herself a smile to stretch across her features, brushing her hair back from her face. “If we’re talking about traditions…”

Their fingers intertwine, and his hand is warm, safe, against hers—which is, of course, fine, everyone has warm hands—and they walk towards the dancefloor. In the corner of her eye, she sees him, Mycroft, frown in place and finger tapping against his cane, watching and waiting. She holds in a breath and Sherlock settles his hand on her waist and she’s blushing, of all things. Ridiculous really; a hand on the waist is, after all, perfectly standard, it isn’t special and she isn’t highly aware of the proximity of their bodies, can’t hear his heartbeat, calm and steady.

“Mycroft –” She swallows, eye darting about the room, anywhere but the man in question. The music swells and it’s soft and romantic—no, not romantic, there’s nothing romantic about this, it’s simply a traditional farewell—and they begin to move around the room. She lets him lead. “Mycroft came here with you?”

His brows furrow, and she’s aware of how small her voice is, how small  _she_  is.

“He’s making sure I don’t run away again,” Sherlock says, bitterness biting in his words. “Not that I was running away in the first place, but my brother is my brother.” He huffs a sigh, brows unknitting, shoulders sinking. “We’re heading back to the portal once the ball is –  _um_  – over.”

Back to the portal, back to Andalasia, back to Irene, back to his wedding. Back to fairy tales.

“Oh.” (A lot of meaning in ‘ _oh_ ’.) She smiles. They make another turn around the ballroom, and it’s almost astonishing, how easy it feels, dancing in his arms. “You’re a good dancer.” She blurts the words out, and a breath of a sound—a laugh, but not quite a laugh, and not quite genuine—comes from her lips, a minute shake of the head and a raise of eyebrows accompanying it.

“Well, I’m a prince – some dancing skill  _is_  expected,” he says lightly, nose crinkling slightly, in a way that’s already incredibly familiar to her.

“Is it expected of a prince to sing?” she asks, and his cheeks briefly flush pink as they both remember back to his haughty announcement of ‘princesses sing, princes don’t’ on her first, rather more dry, asking of that question.

“Not particularly,” he mumbles, looking away.

“Well, I do know one thing about princes.” A smile dances across her lips and her voice is teasing, taunting and she can’t resist it, he’s one of those men. He needs to be teased, once in a while. His hold on her waist tightens, he pulls her towards him, chests smacking together and he twists the pair of them away, out of the path of another, clumsier, pairing and she has to press hand against his chest to steady herself, stop herself from falling, and she can feel that warm flush again, moving up, up her body towards her chest. She flicks her eyes up to meet his. His breathing’s slowed.

“What… do you know about princes?”

She blinks once, twice.

“That they’re supposed to be charming.”

He shifts. They fall back into moving across the dancefloor.

“Am I charming?” he asks. There’s an answer, waiting, right on the tip of her tongue. It dissolves when she hears footsteps approaching them.

“The portal won’t be open forever, brother.” Sherlock’s eyes linger on her for a split second too long and she has to look away. His hand slides from her hip. Mycroft’s mouth thins. “We have to go.”

“Alright.” Sherlock’s voice is tight, constricted. He swallows slightly and she feels cold when he withdraws his hand from hers. “I’ve said my goodbyes.”

“I have too.” She speaks quietly. Almost surprising they heard her at all. Clenching her fingers against her palm, she holds her head higher, nods to each brother, tries not to linger on Sherlock’s blue eyes and slips past them and towards the steps. One, two, three, four.

She turns. Sherlock’s staring at her, unabashedly, without any shame, and she wishes she could do the same. Sadly, she doesn’t have that much faith in fairy tales. Mycroft murmurs something to him, pressing a champagne flute into his hand. Molly pauses.  _Wait._  She sees it, in her mind’s eye, Sherlock’s astonishment at the amount of alcohol in her flat—literally just one bottle of wine and a bottle of whiskey, for when she’s had a truly bad day at work—and his astonishing revelation. “My brother doesn’t believe in vices.”

Mycroft’s gaze slips towards her. It glitters.

“Sherlock…” She runs forward. “Sherlock!”

The liquid slips past his lips, and his eyes widen. Beside him, the illusion’s falling apart, bit by bit, until Mycroft Holmes has faded and a new figure stands there, reptilian and dark-eyed. Sherlock’s mouth drops open and he stumbles. Molly can feel herself freezing, numb. Sherlock clutches at his throat and his legs slip out from underneath. The glass falls to the ground with a smash. Molly’s by his side in a flash.

“What did – what did you do?” Her voice is high, panicked. Why is no-one  _helping?_  They’re all just standing there, dumbfounded and clutching at their chests in shock. The figure steps forward.

“Every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain.” He throws a smile in her direction, merciless and without remorse. “Jim Moriarty. Hi.”

Sherlock is silent and still in her arms, his skin chalk. She reaches up to touch him, to cup at his cheek, but Moriarty only laughs shortly.

“I’m afraid there’s very little you can do for him now.” He crouches low, eyeing Molly, his gaze slipping over her form. When she glares, he only smiles wider. “Poison’s a powerful thing you know. Would take a miracle to revive him, really.”

A miracle. A miracle is what she has. Well, she has a chance of a miracle; a possibility of a miracle, a possibility found in unspoken moments and quiet words.

“Come on,”—this would work, it had to work—“come back to me.”

The clock strikes and his lips are achingly cold, painfully soft but still she prays, her words almost becoming a mantra inside her head.  _Come back to me, come back to me._

Colour blooms in his cheeks, and she can feel her heart growing three sizes and her smile widening. His eyes flutter open. He sees her.

“Oh. You. Of course.”

* * *

He wipes the rain from his eyes, shirt soaked and the material ripped and ruined beyond repair.

“Am I – charming?”

She laughs, a full-bodied laugh, because the question, the situation, is so ludicrous, but somehow, it feels  _right_. Her gaze falls to the sword in Sherlock’s hand.

“You did slay a dragon for me.” She grins, leaning towards him. “I guess that qualifies.”


	130. The Rise of the Sun. (Ladyhawke AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: "Hi, sorry to interrupt. I have to share this with someone and you're so nice to people so I'm not that embarrassed. Have you seen Benedict Cumberbatch's photos as Richard III? Good lord, I think my ovaries just flew out of the window. If you ever get the chance to write inspired on that pic, please DO IT, your writing is just amazing. Toodles!"

Wind swirled through the cramped inn, the door swinging open, its hinges creaking.

“I wonder of the earth’s problem.” The intruder to the relative peace of the inn flashed a red-cheeked smile to the patrons of the tavern. One might’ve thought her an urchin, dressed in rags with her skin muddied with earth, but the gold coin she set down on the table proved such an impression entirely wrong.

Drawing her hood from her face, she sighed, glancing about the now silent patrons. “The storm. I was referring to the storm.”

“What drink?” the tavern owner asked, scooping the coin up into his palm, features twisted into what appeared to be a permanent frown, not all lightened in mood by her joke.

“I think… an ale.” The woman smacked her lips together. “A long time since I drank an ale. So yeah. An ale.”

The tavern owner nodded, moving away through the crowd.

“You’re in good cheer,” a gruff voice made her turn, “for one caught in such a vicious storm.”

“Well of course I am. Where’s my ale?”

The tavern owner moodily set down a pint of ale in front of her and she smiled, pressing another gold coin into his rough-skinned palm.

“For your service sir.”

The tavern owner’s mouth twitched with a smile. “Not usual I get patrons with such generous pockets, miss.”

The woman only sipped at her drink. “I’ve got very good reason to be generous.”

The gruff voiced man spoke up again. “Why’s that then?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, sir,” she said with a laugh. Such mirth rapidly faded when the speaker rose to their feet and turned to face her. Even in the dim light of the tavern, he was easy to recognise. The woman gulped. Wasting no time, she scrabbled to her feet and ran. Tables were overturned, swords were wielded, patrons scattered and the name of ‘Mary Morstan’ rang loud and clear through the tavern.

“Okay, okay!” Mary, backed against the wall of the tavern with ten—twenty?—guards slowly making their approach, raised her hands. “You have me.”

“Your bragging can stop now, wretch,” a guard (lieutenant, by the looks of him) spat, lifting the tip of his sword to her throat. “You’re going back to the prison you managed to wriggle out from.”

“Have you asked the Bishop? How he feels?” The guard’s leer dropped into a questioning, open-mouthed expression. “About it being a woman who managed to escape his prison?”

It took only a small moment for the guard to understand, and he shook his head. “It don’t matter what gender you are, wretch – you’re still goin’ to hang.”

“Leave her be.” Even Mary had to express some surprise at the voice that spoke up. Modulated and eloquent, it conveyed an authority that the guards could never have hoped to have in a hundred years. One by one, they lowered their swords and turned their heads. Even though it was the perfect time to bolt out of the door, back into the storm and the driving rain and away from the guards, Mary could not resist just the tiniest peek at her unasked for rescuer.

The rescuer in question was sat in the corner of the tavern, far away from the other patrons. A man, dark haired and pale skinned, he sat alone, save for one thing: an animal. A hawk, the creature sat silent and unmoving. The lieutenant sneered.

“Do you know who you’re talking to, sir?”

“Oh, I know exactly who I’m talking to – you’re the Bishop of Canterbury’s guards,” the man said. His gloved hands pushed at the plate in front of him, picking thoughtlessly at a half-eaten loaf of bread. “Morons who don’t know how to use either end of a sword.”

The lieutenant bristled. “This is no business of yours.”

The man made a noise at the back of his throat, a small, contemplative noise. With far more care than his manner might’ve suggested, he broke off a bite of the bread in front of him and held it up to the hawk, which bent its head and gracefully took the food from his fingers. The man finally rose to his feet. Drawing his fingers briefly against the plume of the bird, he stepped forward, every step heavy and resounding. The man came to a stop between her and the guards. His hand rested against the hilt of his sword and he turned his head, looking towards the lieutenant. Mary doubted she had ever seen one man appear so afraid of another.

“Go to your master, the Bishop,” he said, tone soft. “Tell him that this wretch, Mary Morstan, is under the protection of Sherlock Holmes.”

Who this Sherlock Holmes was or why he created such fear within the guards, Mary had no idea, but she was grateful for his existence nonetheless. The man turned away and a short, low whistle sounded from his lips. The hawk, once so still, stretched out its wings and flew across the heads of the patrons, landing easily on the man’s outstretched arm. The man’s other hand reached out and before Mary could think to say or do anything, he had gripped her by her arm and steered her out of the tavern.

* * *

Outside, the rain was almost ear-splitting. It was a struggle to hear anything, aside from the splashing of their footsteps as he practically frogmarched them down the path, away from the tavern.

“You didn’t have to do that you know,” Mary had to shout over the rolling thunder but the man said nothing to her words as they rounded a sharp corner, “I had them right where I wanted them!”

The hawk twittered, and the man jerked to a halt, his grip finally going lax against Mary’s arm. Wrestling her arm free and drawing up her hood to protect from the driving rain, Mary watched, arms crossed tightly over her stomach as the hawk twittered once more, frantically turning its head, its brown feathers ruffling quickly. The man turned back to Mary. She blinked, stepping back. He had a strange look to him, almost manic.

“Was their claim true?”

“Claim?” Mary snorted. “What claim?”

“You know what claim; do not play games with me.”

The rain poured against them, soaking the skin, but the both of them remained stood, neither willing to give in first.

“Tell me,” the man commanded, taking a step forward. Mary rolled her eyes.

“Yes. I’m the wretch who managed to escape the walls of Canterbury prison. And you have made a big mistake in choosing to protect me.”

The man’s mouth lilted into a smile. “I don’t make mistakes.”

“You do realise  _why_  those guards threatened me, don’t you?” Mary called after his rapidly retreating form. “The Bishop prides himself on never having let a criminal escape.”

“Then I’m sure your escape has provided a large dent to his ego.”

Mary sighed, jogging quickly after the man. “And has set twenty guards or more on my tail!” she said hotly.

The man juddered to a halt. His eyes narrowed. “Then why escape? You knew there’d be consequences.”

“For myself alone! I didn’t plan on some stranger acting as my rescuer and getting involved in my business.”

The man raised an eyebrow at her words. “Well, believe me – my rescue of you was not an act of charity.”

She frowned, falling into step with him as they continued walking down, towards the main town square. “Then what was it?”

“An act of necessity,” the man replied. He reached into his pocket and brought out another bite of bread, feeding it to the hawk. “I need to know every aspect of Canterbury’s walls – you escaped via the sewer, correct?”

Mary blinked. “Correct. How in the world did you know  _that_?”

“Word gets around fast – I was able to separate truth from rumour, however. There’s some people who believe you a witch.” Not too surprising. Anyone believed a woman was a witch if she was clever enough. They headed past the town’s entrance, turned a corner and headed down an alleyway, towards a small stables. Darting inside, Mary saw that there waited a black horse, patiently waiting. It whickered on seeing the man, and the man, shutting the door behind them, stepped forward, stroking at the horse’s neck.

“So, what’s your answer?” the man asked, looking to her as he took the reins of the animal in hand. “You’ll travel with us?”

“Only if I know why you need me,” Mary said, holding the man’s gaze. “Otherwise you can find some other wretch to help you.”

The man considered her, and his answer, for a long moment. Finally, he let out a long breath. “I need you so I can kill the Bishop of Canterbury.”

Mary swallowed. She almost asked if he were serious, but a question such as that did not need to be asked. His look said enough.

* * *

The rain gradually dissipated as they walked up through the winding hills of the town, acquiring provisions as they went, towards the forest. The hawk that appeared so faithful to the man sometimes flew alongside them for a time, always sticking close to the man’s side, and occasionally the man would feed it or pet it, but it was more often than not that it stayed perched on his arm, silent but somehow, always alert. They walked up the single winding stone path that acted as the forest’s entrance and through the thick layer of trees they journeyed until the sky burned orange with the oncoming sunset, strange shadows forming across their faces, the sunlight flickering against their skin. It was then that the man told her to make camp and sleep until sunrise, where they would resume their travels. Mary knew she did not have to inquire as to where they were travelling to. It was more than obvious.

“What are you doing?” At this she paused, sticks in hand, and saw her travelling companion sat some way away from her. She gave a shrug and crouched down, assembling the sticks into a pile.

“Making a fire. What of it?”

“You’re a fugitive.” He spoke the words with a plain, even tone, but it was easy to tell when she was being teased. Sighing, she threw the sticks away. The man smiled, and gestured towards the horse.

“My blanket is in one of the saddle bags, use that.”

“You’ll be cold.”

Another raise of an eyebrow, but no verbal reply. Deciding not to press the matter, Mary dutifully stood and on fetching the blanket, returned to her chosen spot, lay down on the damp forest ground and prayed for a peaceful night.

* * *

Her breath was a grey cloud against the still early morning air. Her hand slipped down, wrapping around the dagger at her belt. Sleep had long passed from her mind and her prayers. A twig snapped and she turned her head, only to let out a soft sigh of relief when a fox dashed across the landscape. Something in the corner of her eye made her head turn again. She tightened her grip on the dagger. It was an old dagger, barely sharp, more useful for cutting vegetables than cutting skin, but it was a good deterrent nonetheless. She glanced about the forest. Whatever it was that had caught her eye was gone, but only for the moment. Sliding out from underneath the blanket, removing the dagger from her belt, Mary gradually rose to her feet. Wind whistled past her cheek and she turned. There it was. A figure, silhouetted by the dark, moving closer and closer towards the camp. A bandit, most likely. Mary shivered. Not even the Bishop’s guards were brave enough to face the colds of the forest. Only the truly desperate ever made a home here.

She moved back, lowering herself to the ground, her fingers pressed against the gnarled bark of the tree trunk. To anyone else, the camp looked abandoned. The figure continued forward, and Mary almost ached for the need of a fire, if only to see her foe, to guess how they should be approached, if they were a true threat or not a bandit but simply a curious beggar. ‘Fugitive’ indeed. She inched forward, but her foe gave no signs of knowing her presence. Instead, they still moved forward, wandering around the camp. On the ground, Sherlock’s sword glinted in the light. The figure paused. Mary gradually rose to her feet. Kneeling, the figure reached out. Their fingers danced over the silver blade.

Mary surged forward, holding the blade of her dagger against her foe’s throat. “Who are—”

She stopped. Slowly, as her eyes became accustomed to the sight before her, her dagger fell from the figure’s throat. A woman. Her foe was a woman. A small, lithe woman swathed in a cloak and travelling garments who, on being threatened, merely smiled and stood. Definitely not a bandit—nor a beggar.

“I suppose this situation must seem strange to you.”

“No stranger than the sights I’ve seen today,” Mary replied, replacing her dagger at her belt. The woman adjusted the hood of her cloak, amusement in her eyes.

“Truly? Stranger sights than a woman attempting to pick up a sword?”

Mary grinned. “Oh, much stranger than that. We have some food, if you’re in need of it.”

“No, I’m well enough for food.”

“Drink?”

The woman smiled, but hesitation flickered in her eyes. Yet she nodded all the same. Unclipping the water bladder from her belt, Mary pressed it into the woman’s hands and sat upon the forest floor. The woman followed suit.

“It’s strange,” she said, taking a sip of water, “I haven’t seen another human for quite some time.”

“You live in the forest?”

The woman lowered her gaze, stifling a laugh. “More or less.”

“I’ve heard the only ones who dare live in the forest are either mad or dangerous.” Mary tilted her head. “Which one are you?”

The woman pretended to think for a moment, before she nodded. “Dangerous, definitely.”

“Oh. I’ll make sure to be careful of you then,” Mary said brightly. “Though I might’ve called you ‘mad’ for wandering about the forest in the early hours.”

“Others have called me much worse,” the woman remarked. “Have  _done_  much worse.” Mary stared at her. It was unnerving somewhat, how calm she sounded and acted, when such words were coming out of her mouth.

Mary glanced out over the landscape. Night had given way to dawn, and the sky was a light haze of blue and purple, the stars fading, the promise of sun just beyond the horizon. It was a sight many people treasured, but when Mary looked to the woman again, she saw, reflected against the light, tears slowly streaming down her cheeks.

“What’s wrong?”

The woman dropped the water to her side, wiping at her eyes, but still the tears came. Instinctively, Mary wound an arm around the woman’s shoulders. Though they were strangers to one another, though they had never met, the woman curled up against Mary. Her tears continued to flow.

* * *

A growl made her look up. Gasping, Mary shot to her feet, withdrawing her dagger. The wolf eased forward, its growl reverberating up, up against its throat. The woman however, showed no fear. Rather, she turned her head and held out a hand. Mary made to move forward, to protect the woman, but the woman shook her head, beckoning towards the wolf. Mary stumbled back, agape, as the wolf obeyed the woman, directing only a short snarl at her as it passed. The woman smiled wider, her fingers running through the wolf’s dark fur, over his back and she leaned forward, her eyes fluttering closed, to kiss at the top of its head. The wolf softly whined, lowering itself onto the ground beside the woman. Mary lowered her dagger, watching the scene, confusion and fascination gnawing away at her. What was it that caused this kind of courage in this woman, this stranger? What sort of creature obeyed a human?

Heat pressed against her face and she glanced up. The sun was starting to rise, yellow gradually filling the landscape, covering the camp in a golden glow.

“Mary.”

Her mouth dropped open when she looked back to the scene that had entranced her so much before. In place of the woman, there was the hawk. And in place of the wolf, there was Sherlock. As if nothing had changed. As if the night hadn’t passed. The hawk jumped up onto Sherlock’s arm, nibbling lightly at the sleeve of his shirt. Sherlock smiled, stroking gently at the brown feathers. Finally, Mary spoke, her voice hoarse.

“Who is she?”

Sherlock sighed as he lifted his arm, letting the hawk go and he leaned back, watching as she flew over the landscape ahead. Two words formed his answer. “My wife.”


	131. Evil's Face (Mycroft/Anthea, AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous requested a Hades/Persephone myth AU for the pairing of Mycroft/Anthea. This is my first time writing these two characters in a romantic situation, so this is more of a drabble than a fic.

Those who believed in God and other such things claimed evil was obvious. That the devil could be seen if you looked in its very eye. Stuff and nonsense, of course. The devil was a charmer, a trickster, and a trickster was the ultimate selfless being, always moulding itself to another’s desires, never truly revealing its truest nature until the last, final moment. A trickster worked on temptation. Those were the facts Mycroft had gleaned from his books, from all the frivolous stories told to him when he was a boy. Logic dictated therefore, that if he kept temptation at bay, temptation would never reach him.

So when he walked into the rain, on the search for his wayward younger brother and saw her, knelt down in the soft long grass, legs tucked underneath her body, darkened garments draped over her soaked skin, brown hair falling in curls but her smile bright and her laughter singing across the air, he found the stories were true.

And for some reason, a reason that he somehow knew he would never quite understand, Mycroft found that he didn’t mind.


	132. Hopes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100 word song-fic drabble inspired by Sam Smith's "Stay with Me", as requested by Tumblr user **trashbinthirts** , based on a post-TRF headcanon I have, that Sherlock shared Molly's bed on the night of the Fall.

She wants it to be romantic. That part of her heart which will always belong to him, regardless of anything he might do, say or feel wants his lips to brush against hers, his arms to hold her tightly. She wants it to be real.

He knows it isn’t romantic. He knows that her warmth is a friend’s warmth, that the tentative way her fingers trace over his hand is just the whisper of a permanent wish for something he cannot hope to provide. They both know that he can’t give her what he wants. Yet, still… Still she’s here.


	133. Honeymoon Excursion. (Molly/Irene)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From an anonymous request for the filthiest Molly/Irene smut I could manage. Dom/sub dynamics in this fic. Obviously explicit.

_What’s it like, dating a dominatrix?_  Molly had come up with many answers to that question, over the last few years or so. Some people immediately jumped to thoughts of whipping. Of handcuffs at the end of the bed. Debauchery, voyeurism. Some people viewed it with the shade of ultimate femininity. Sweetness and hand-holding and cupcakes with dusty pink icing. 

Contrary to popular belief about her, she was not shy in the bedroom department. She was not all blushes and nervous requests. In fact, she’d taken great delight with her past lovers by showing just how forthright she was. With just how much she  _enjoyed_  the act. So Molly knew what she was getting into when she attached herself to Irene Alder. (Now Adler-Hooper, but still Adler in professional circles). It was, actually, heaven when she found Miss Adler. There was no-one else she’d have played servant to.

* * *

Their honeymoon took place in a country hotel. Secluded, it was only for the most elite of guests. Concierges greeted them at the door. Footmen took their bags. Not one of them batted an eyelid at any of their behaviour. Not even when Irene declared she couldn’t wait to give her new wife a multitude of multiple orgasms. “Just a test, darling,” she’d purred. “Seeing if anyone might complain, you know?” Molly still hadn’t let her renege on the promise, however. (It had taken Irene an afternoon to accomplish the feat, but it was an afternoon well spent indeed.)

A few days into their honeymoon was when Irene insisted they take a drive in the afternoon.

“Am I boring you so much?” Molly had asked as she rolled onto her stomach, letting the bed sheets fall from her body. Toothbrush in hand and leaned against the bathroom doorway, Irene had smirked.

“Oh darling, no. Not at all.” Her eyes flicked over Molly’s body. “Could hardly be bored of you.”

Molly raised an eyebrow. “Then can I know why we’re taking this trip?”

“No,” Irene said. Moving back into the bathroom, she soon reappeared. Daubing at the corners of her mouth with a towel, she bent down. “Though I will tell you—” 

She pressed two warm kisses, one to her wife’s cheek, the second to her mouth.

“Tell me what?” 

Irene smiled a wolfish grin. “Wear a dress, darling.”

* * *

Arriving at their destination, the reasoning for Irene’s demands became clear to Molly. She let out a short, happy laugh. Irene smiled a demure smile.

“We’re in public dear,” she whispered. “Try not to let yourself get  _too_  excited.”

Molly turned her head, but Irene tutted and stepped forward. Her fingers smoothed her over Molly’s hair, tucking back the loose strands. Every gesture, every touch was affectionate. Molly returned Irene’s growing smile.

“You’ve got one hour, darling.”

She left Molly with only that, an unspoken promise, and a kiss on the cheek. Then she disappeared into the grassy lanes of the maze.

* * *

Molly panted and rounded a corner. The skirt of her dress twirled as she turned. She supposed she must have looked positively wild, all wide-eyed and searching. She’d tried everywhere, it seemed, but Irene was nowhere to be seen. The sky above was dusted orange, and the air had cooled. The grass was dewy underfoot, remnants of rain in the morning she assumed. She stopped. Right or left? No, she’d gone left before. That had only ended up leading her right back to where she was. So right. She turned on her heel. Promptly, she smacked into the torso of a thickset security guard.

“Hello love. You lost?” he said. The familiar sort of haplessness only possessed by security guards was in his voice. It was obvious that he was finding stragglers, ushering them out of the maze so he could go home. Such a thought was proved when he raised his arm and gestured. “Go straight ahead, turn right three times, and take a left. You’ll be at the exit then. Alright?”

“Alright, thank you,” Molly called to his soon retreating form. In complete disobedience to his instructions, she surged ahead and turned left. Another lane of hedges greeted her. The top of the centre tower peeked out, guiding her. Straightening her shoulders, Molly carried on, her footsteps soft against the damp grass. She came to the end of the lane and, looking left, found exactly what she was looking for. 

She grinned and stepped forward and turned, heading up the steps.

In the tower that marked the end of her journey, Irene sat on a bench. She had her arms folded over her chest and she leaned back, legs crossed. Yet despite her stance, she greeted the sight of her wife, all messy hair and pinked cheeks, with elation.

“Oh darling, you look exhausted.” Her eyes followed as Molly sat down beside her. “I hope you haven’t been running.”

Teasing. Molly opened one eye. 

“You told me I had an hour.”

Irene glanced at her watch.

“You made it in 50 minutes.” She flashed a smile. “An eager woman, aren’t you?”

“I’m good at mazes,” Molly retorted, idly running her fingers through her hair. “Mum took me to them all the time when I was a kid.”

“I know,” Irene said softly. She reached forward and took gentle possession of Molly’s hand, stilling it. Molly’s fingers instinctively unfurled as Irene dropped open-mouthed kisses on her palm. “You told me.”

“Oh – yeah,” Molly replied, and she laughed. Whatever else she had to say though was cut off when Irene began to kiss up her the warm flesh of her palm. Her blue eyes, intense, locked onto hers. Molly’s breath hitched. Irene grinned, smile wicked, as her tongue swirled around the tip of Molly’s finger. Playful, Irene bit at the skin and withdrew, straightening up.

Molly tilted her head. “How’d you get here so fast? Memorise the route?”

“Or I’ve been here before.” Irene’s hand settled easily on Molly’s thigh. “Your choice.”

It was the languid nature of it all. The soft tone, the tender touches. Molly knew that, for Irene Adler, the mechanics of seduction were child’s play. It was who she chose to do it too that was important. Every person was different, that was her secret. Every person had their own points, their own desires. She tapped into that. There was a sense, knowledge, that she would never touch another person the way she touched Molly.

“Have you stopped to think about what we’re doing?”

“What I’m doing, surely,” Irene mused, voice silky. Molly shrugged, eyes lowering towards Irene’s hand. It had moved only a centimetre up her thigh.

“I’m a willing participant,” she said. Flicking her eyes back up, she met with her wife’s. Irene smiled, tucking her hand against her neck. Up the hand went again, by an inch this time. (Molly clamped down any urge to say words such as “please”, “fuck”, and “now”.)

“That’s true.” Her eyes dropped towards Molly’s leg. Another centimetre up. Molly bit her lip. She squirmed, only a little. Languid Irene’s seduction technique might’ve been, but it was calculated too. Beautiful, really, that. “You ran through a maze for me. If that’s not romance – I don’t know what is.”

“Well, I’m a romantic at heart,” Molly said. Irene chuckled. Molly turned her head, eyeing her. “What?”

“Showing your eagerness, aren’t you darling?”

Molly glanced back at her lap, and swallowed a smile. She let go of the hem of her dress, smoothing it back down.

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Irene said, with a minute shake of her head. She leaned towards Molly and she kissed at her neck. With a single finger, she reached out. She drew a line against the fabric of Molly’s already soaked knickers. “I find it rather endearing.”

Molly shivered and sighed a soft sigh, her body relaxing into the bench. Irene made no remark, save to make a low approving noise at the back of her throat. She wound her arm around Molly’s shoulders, drawing a fingernail against Molly’s skin. Without warning, Irene cupped at her sex. Molly let out a tiny, breathless cry.

“Darling?” Concern edged at Irene’s crisp tone. Molly only smiled in reply and, after a moment, she nodded. With that, Irene relaxed again.

Two fingers this time, she drew again against Molly’s knickers. Yet when she got to the hem of the knickers, she did not tease. She didn’t tantalise by gliding her fingers along the frilled, laced edge. Sighing almost in amusement, she slid underneath the fabric and Molly moaned deeply. An expert, dexterous in her play, Irene teased the folds of Molly’s cunt. Molly whispered, murmured soft pleads for her to go deeper, go harder. Irene’s only attempt at gratifying her wife was to kiss at the warmed skin of Molly’s neck. She kissed just beyond the edge of the Peter Pan collar Molly had thought so adorable when she’d got dressed that morning. Molly turned her head, seeking out Irene’s mouth. Yet distraction overtook. 

For, just as their mouths brushed together, Irene finally obeyed her wife. With teasing, light touches, she swiped at Molly’s swollen clit. Molly arched, and gasped. Her kiss became deeper. Her hands flew to Irene’s shoulders, holding her. Irene did not let up, but indeed, moved deeper.

“Do me darling,” Irene whispered, and Molly’s eyes flew open. Irene’s eyes glittered in the darkening air. “Do me, as I do you.”

She did not need telling twice. Sliding her arm over Irene’s, Molly reached down. She let out a filthy laugh.

“You like my present?” Irene said, her own hand still working at Molly’s centre. Molly moaned.

“Very much so,” she whispered. At last she took possession of her wife’s mouth. Tender, she slid her fingers against Irene’s exposed, wet cunt. They were a tangle of limbs and panting breaths, heavy and hot and real against the night. Molly could feel beads of sweat pop out against her forehead. Never had she felt so alive.

“Harder,” Irene gasped against her wife’s mouth and she bucked, eager, against the sensations of her wife, urging her on. Molly obeyed without protest. Irene broke their kiss to suck at her neck, her ministrations gentle. Molly almost whined with pleasure. Her whole body warmed, and she knew. The precipice. She was edging towards it, faster and faster, needing more, wanting more. She tipped her head against Irene’s shoulder, the two of them moving as one. Irene’s gasps were shorter, quicker. Higher. Close.

Her climatic call and moans of Molly’s name echoed through the maze. Molly’s own elation followed. Finally they sat, huddled together on the bench. Their breaths were tangled and laboured but their smiles were wide.

“HEY!” The security guard’s voice hollered out, and his footsteps thundered up the tower steps. Molly and Irene broke apart, adjusting their dresses. They shared a smile as the guard’s torch flashed over the two.

“What the hell are you two doing here? It’s after hours!”

“We’re terribly sorry, sir,” Molly said, the definition of innocence itself. She rose to her feet with Irene, their hands linked. A smile crept onto her lips when she spoke again. “My wife and I got – carried away. We’ll be off now.”


	134. If You've Seen One Diamond, You've Seen Them All.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous user on Tumblr requested: "Please write a Pink Panther AU. That Or a 'Shot in the Dark' AU." I obliged, and did one of my favourite scenes from the first Pink Panther movie.
> 
> There's traces of Molly/Anderson and Molly/Tom and Molly/Sherlock in this story.

The problem, Molly decided, with holidaying in a luxury ski resort in the prettiest area of rural France is that when it snowed, it got awfully cold. Sighing, she burrowed down against the blankets. The muffled sounds of her husband, humming to himself as he made himself ready for bed, came from behind the bathroom door.

“You know my love,” he called from behind the door, “I’m positive that every day I’m getting closer to this Phantom. And I just know he’s bound to slip up one day.”

Molly yawned widely, and slid further down the bed. “Of course, darling.”

The bathroom door opened. Her husband’s face peeked out. “Is my talk of the Phantom bothering you dear?”

“No!” She straightened up and smiled brightly, shaking her head a little. “Not at all. I’m simply – tired, that’s all. I’ve had a very long day.”

“With all that skiing, I’m not surprised,” her husband remarked, and he smiled what he must have thought was a debonair smile. Any elegance in his expression however, was gone when the phone gave a harsh, loud ring and he jumped. He aimed a smile at his wife (she dutifully returned it) and with some degree of caution, answered it.

“Hello? Yes, this is the Inspector – wait. You do? Oh, then I will come at once. Where are you sir?” Molly sat up, curling her knees up to her chest as she watched her husband narrow his eyes and stare at his watch. He sighed. “Yes, of course. I’ll be there momentarily.”

Hanging up, he pushed the phone to one side and with another greatly dramatic sigh, he moved towards the wardrobe.

Molly tilted her head. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing wrong, my love.” Her husband shrugged on his coat and sat on the edge of the bed, sliding on his shoes. “The chief of police just called – claims he has information on the Phantom.”

“Oh.” She pouted. “Must you leave now?”

Her husband turned to look at her. He reached out, taking her hand. “On any other night, with any other criminal, I might stay, but—”

“It’s the Phantom.” Molly cupped his cheek. “I know how important he is to you darling. Go. I shall be waiting for you.”

He seemed contented by her words, and with a smile and a spring in his step, he departed.

Molly immediately threw the blankets off and, opening the bedside table drawer, scooped up the sign. Hanging it on the door handle, she made herself busy with remaking the bed. Hearing a knock on the door caused her to smile. Running over, she opened the door by a crack. Blue eyes looked at her, twinkling. Sherlock’s mouth rose with a grin. The sign, with its elegant script of ‘Do Not Disturb’ was tucked idly between his fingers.

“And how goes the playboy?” he asked. She rolled her eyes and opened the door wider. He stepped inside, brushing a little at his suit. She shut the door and leaned against it, her eyes never once leaving his.

“Terrible, if you must know.” She gave a playful grin and lifted her head. “He won’t leave me alone. I wouldn’t mind so much if he wasn’t so awful at it.”

Sherlock stepped forward. The ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign fluttered easily from his fingers and made a graceful landing on the carpeted floor. He traced the line of her jaw with the gentlest of touches and with grace, tucked his hand under her chin.

“I’m sure it must be awful for you,” he murmured, and he bent his head. He pressed the briefest of sweet kisses to her mouth.

“My husband, on the other hand, is a perfect gentleman,” she remarked, reaching up to kiss him.

“Anderson? A gentleman?” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I can hardly believe that.”

“Then you don’t trust me.”

“Of course I do,” he said smoothly. Molly cocked an eyebrow.

“Hm. Well, I suppose you’ll be interested in what I managed to procure today.” As she spoke, she moved away from the door, towards the bed. Sherlock joined her, sitting beside her and winding an arm around her hip, his thumb smoothing against the material of her nightgown in small, slow circles.

“The box key?” he asked with the lilt of eagerness in his voice. Molly chuckled and reached forward, scooping it up from the open drawer.

“It’s an exact copy. The original is with Sally, so she’s none the wiser.” She lay back on the bed, propping herself up with her elbows. Sherlock glanced down at her, a smile in his expression as he slipped the key into the pocket of his dressing gown.

“I don’t know how I manage without you.”

“You don’t.” She reached up, drawing her fingers against the curls of his hair.

He laughed at her words, but did not refute them, and he leaned back, winding his arm around her waist to let his hand settle at her hip. Drawing small and slow circles with his thumb against the soft material of her pale blue nightgown, he kissed at her cheek and nuzzled lightly at her neck before he caught her mouth in a long, tender embrace. She sighed into the sensation, wrapping her arms around his neck as his hand traced up, up against her torso.

“Bellboy,” was the call that came from behind the door. Molly paused, glanced, and groaned. Room service, and at this time of night. Sherlock—though understandably eager not to be discovered with the inspector’s wife—was still somewhat reluctant to stand and slip into the supply closet opposite the bed. Molly huffed a sigh and ruffled at her hair as she stood up and stormed over to the bedroom door. Throwing it open, her annoyance only grew when Tom nodded at her, a smile on his features. She did not return it.

“Can I come in?” He didn’t wait for an answer, and instead slipped into the room. Champagne in one hand, and flowers in the other, he was the picture perfect playboy and exactly not what she needed at that very moment in time.

“ _What_  are you doing here?” Molly asked crisply, pulling her dressing gown over her nightgown and tying it tightly. Tom shrugged, abandoning the flowers and choosing to open the champagne, pouring it into two flute glasses.

“You must come at once Inspector—” he said gaily, a French accent running through his words, “down to Brunico – this is the prefect of police, I have important information regarding the Phantom!”

Realisation made Molly sigh in a light display of despair. “You called – well, you’re a fool for doing so – Brunico is only an hour’s drive away from here, and—”

“Mrs Anderson,” Tom said silkily, “we can do a lot in an hour.”

Molly forced herself to swallow down the remark of that fact not necessarily being a  _good_  thing. Tom smoothly took her hand into his and led her towards the bed. She allowed herself to sit, and take a sip of the champagne. It didn’t matter how bad he was at the act of seduction or wooing or whatever people called it these days, she had to play the part. So she smiled and touched her glass to his and sipped. (Or she at least pretended to.)

“I have something to confess to you.” Tom’s words made her look to him. She curled up on the bed, fluttering her eyelashes. He seemed to like it when she did that.

“And what’s that?”

He let out a breath, as if steadying himself, and locked eyes with her. “I’m the Phantom.”

 _The Phantom! I can only ever love the Phantom! I’m mad for him, whoever he is!_ Words said on the top of a ski slope in a desperate attempt to stop herself from being pawed at by an overzealous wannabe playboy, who was now sat beside her and using that very claim against her.Molly took a rather large gulp of champagne. Apparently she was going to need a lot of alcohol to cope with this evening.

Of course, it was not that she disliked Tom in any way,  _really_. If he wasn’t so intent on her (and didn’t make those intentions so bloody obvious to everyone in sight), she might’ve wanted him for a friend; but how could she take a man who was willing to claim himself a criminal just to get into a woman’s knickers seriously?

“Sorry?” she asked. Tom repeated his statement, firmer this time, and a loud snort, derisive and direct from the supply closet, sounded. Before Tom could begin to register the sound, Molly began to cough violently. Tom sat straight upright, alarm crossing his features.

“Molly?”

“Oh – it’s – nothing – just—” she coughed again, “probably bubbles – from the champagne – up my – nose. I’ll be fine.”

Flicking her hair over her shoulder, she shifted back on the bed, curling her legs under herself and smiled her best seductive smile.

“Now… tell me something only the Phantom would know.”

“Here?” Tom asked, quirking an eyebrow. Clearly he thought this banter.

“Of course,” she answered with a one-shouldered shrug. She inched closer towards Tom, and slowly, as slowly as she dared, leaned towards him. “Otherwise, how can I possibly know you are telling me the truth and not just lying to me for my own benefit?”

She glanced quickly towards the supply closet. No derisive snorts and contemptuous scoffs, thank God. She doubted she could cover up Sherlock’s ego twice in a row. Tom shifted, edging closer and closer towards her. His arm reached out, smoothing against her waist. His gaze dropped, focusing on her parted lips. On one hand, good, she was fooling him. On the other—

A knock came at the door, and Molly had never felt quite so relieved. She turned her head away.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me.” Tom paled; obviously he recognised the voice just as well as she did.

“Your husband!” he squeaked. Molly grabbed the champagne from his hand, put both glasses on the floor, and grabbed Tom by the arm. Throwing a sweet call of ‘just a minute dear’ over her shoulder, she opened the door to the wardrobe and pushed Tom inside. Shutting it, she grabbed the two champagne glasses and put them on the side table.

“Darling?” Concern edged at Anderson’s voice.

“Coming, dear, coming!” Molly ran towards the bedroom door and opened it, beaming at her husband. He did not return the sentiment.

Her beaming smile fell. “What happened?”

“The phone call was a joke,” Anderson snapped. “I was halfway to Brunico when I remembered – the prefect of police is not stationed in Brunico! Why I allowed myself to be taken in, I do not know – it’s this Phantom! He’s got my mind so tangled and – Molly darling, what’s wrong? You’re holding onto my arm rather tightly.”

Molly, realising that on seeing her husband head straight for the wardrobe she had panicked and made a grab for his arm and had pulled him back, laughed and immediately let go.

“I’m sorry Philip, I’m – I was just thinking – you’ve had such a hard day and night – wouldn’t it be better for you to go and have a nice relaxing shower? I’ll lay out your bedclothes for you.”

Anderson considered her words. It took him only a moment—and a winning, slightly coquettish smile on her part—for him to nod and agree. Almost as soon as the bathroom door swung closed behind him, the door to the wardrobe opened and Tom climbed out. Apparently not willing to wait a single moment longer, he took Molly into his arms, dipped her (of all things!) and kissed her. Molly forced down her squeak of outrage, though her eyes snapped up when she heard the creak of the supply closet door. 

Sliding out and quietly shutting it behind him, Sherlock tiptoed behind Tom. Seeing Molly in the man’s arms, Sherlock frowned and pointed, his eyebrows almost disappearing up into his hairline. Molly rolled her eyes as she gestured to the bed with a brief flail of an arm, still caught up in Tom’s decidedly unasked embrace. Sherlock’s mouth twitched with an obvious urge to laugh as he slipped down underneath the bed.

“My love—” Molly yelped as Tom, hearing Anderson, dropped her onto the floor and practically sprinted towards, opened and leaped into the supply closet. The bathroom door swung open, and Anderson stepped out.

“I – Molly! You’re on the floor. Why are you on the floor? Are you unwell? Perhaps a doctor—”

“I’m not unwell,” she said quickly, flustered. “I think it was just – wooziness – from the champagne.”

“Champagne?” Anderson frowned. “When did you order champagne?”

“While you were away!” Molly scrambled up to her feet and made a grab for the champagne bottle, showing it to her husband. Anderson’s frown deepened, however.

“You’ve got flowers too.”

“I ordered them both. The flowers I ordered because, well, you know how much I love flowers darling, and the champagne because I—” She lowered her gaze, allowing herself a blush. “Because I was hoping tonight could be –  _the_  night.”

Anderson’s eyes widened. “ _The_ …”  

She nodded. “Yes.” The word came out of her lips in a shy whisper.

“Oh! Yes, that would be – well of course tonight should be – Molly, you are so – I see no need to bother with bedclothes at all!” Anderson declared with his eyes bright and cheeks flushed with excitement. Molly urged herself forward, stilling Anderson’s hands which had begun to eagerly unbutton his shirt.

“Oh my love, don’t – I’d much rather we kept the bedclothes on.”

“Then how—?”

“I don’t know what it is – there’s this fire within me when I see it – all that… tartan!” It was a mad, pathetic reason for bedclothes, but needs did must. She continued. “So my darling, go back into the bathroom and finish getting ready for bed. I’ll be out here with your bedclothes and the – champagne.”

However silly her words were, her husband didn’t seem to mind or think of it. Indeed, his eyes simply widened further and a low growl escaped him (Molly tried not to look as shocked as she felt by that particular sound) before he cupped at her neck and pulled her forwards, pressing an entirely uncomfortable kiss to her mouth. Molly watched as he, buoyed by her promises, practically skipped back towards the bathroom.

Molly dived onto the floor. From his place underneath the bed, Sherlock tilted his head at her.

“What shall I do? He wants—”

“Don’t worry. You’ll think of something, I’m sure.”

Their conversation was curtailed by the opening of the bathroom door. Molly immediately shot to her feet.

“My dear – I lost an earring, and I wanted to – did you want something?”

Anderson shrugged. “Simply to see your beautiful face.”

Molly smiled a quite genuine smile. Anderson could, admittedly, be quite romantic. Unfortunately, never when he was  _trying_  to be.

 _Thud._  Molly’s eyelids fluttered close. It had come from the supply closet. Of course it had.

“What was that?”

“Probably just something falling over—”

“I’ll have to investigate.”

Dear God. Marrying a police inspector had seemed like a good idea at the time.

“Darling!” Anderson turned at her call. Molly took her hair in hand, twirling it slightly around her finger. She stepped forward, biting at her lip. “Wouldn’t you much rather listen to the noises we make? Together?”

The bathroom door slammed behind him. Molly let out a sigh of relief, which was cut short by the supply closet creaking open. Molly rushed over and slammed the supply closet door shut. Tom was not particularly the one she wanted to deal with at the moment, not at all. Scurrying to the bed, she grabbed Sherlock by the arm as he climbed out from underneath, and together, they ran towards the bedroom door. Sherlock carefully opened it, only to immediately close it again.

“There’s a maid,” he whispered. His annoyance reflected hers. Sherlock glanced around the room. His eyes locked on the opposite door. The balcony door.

Molly shook her head. “Sherlock, you can’t—”

“I can,” he murmured, “and I will. It’s simple – climb down the balcony, slip in through the front entrance, no-one will be any the wiser.”

No more argument was given. Considering the situation, it was better than anything else. Sherlock jogged towards the balcony door and stepped outside. Molly drew the curtains, flimsy wisps of lace that they were, but it was fashionable and it did obscure him somewhat, if he stayed in the shadows. All she had to do was get rid of Tom, which wouldn’t be difficult. Much.

“Give me a kiss.” His demand was swift as he circled around her. Okay, so perhaps more difficult than she expected. One might’ve thought his appetite for seduction would’ve waned after being stuffed into wardrobes and supply closets. Well, at least he had stamina. There was something in that. She stepped back. He followed.

“Tom, I can love no man but the Phantom,” she said quietly, “remember that.”

“I don’t have to,” Tom whispered. “I  _am_  the Phantom. Remember that?”

“Ah, but you didn’t prove it.” (She really was turning desperate.) “And until you do, I can’t kiss you. However much I’d like to.”

There. That should’ve got rid of him. Unfortunately, his attention seemed to be caught somewhere else, by something else. He stared in the direction of the balcony.

“Is that someone—?”

Bugger. There was only one thing for it.

Molly reached up, grabbed Tom’s jaw and turned his head and without hesitation or shame, she kissed him. Tom though, could not apparently be swayed. He pulled away. He eyed her.

“Are you trying to distract me?”

“No, no,” she murmured, pushing herself up against him, running her hands over the breadth of his shoulders, caressing him. “I simply changed my mind. Your very appearance, your looks, tells me all that I need to know. You are the Phantom. No need to prove it.”

He had the sort of lopsided smile on his face that, on the television, would usually be accompanied by stars flitting around his face in circles.

“I’ll go one better,” he whispered. He bent his head, murmuring lowly into her ear. “I’ll steal the Pink Panther diamond. Just for you.”

Oh. If she wasn’t trying to help another man steal it, she could think the declaration romantic. Tom withdrew himself from her, made a grab for the champagne bottle and departed. (Whatever maid was there before had probably disappeared if he felt such freedom in walking straight out of her room.) Molly remained where she was, still a little numbed by Tom’s eager announcement. Only a gentle, quiet tap on the balcony doors had her moving. Parting the curtains, she stepped out onto the balcony.

“Sherlock?” she asked quietly. The man in question stepped out of the shadows. She fell, with some relief, into his arms.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, his hand smoothing against her shoulders and back as he held her, “if any more Phantoms come forward, I’ll be out of a job.”

“No.” Molly stared up at him. “There’s only one Phantom, in the end.”

Sherlock chuckled softly. His parting kiss was tender, and Molly watched as he stepped back, over the edge of the balcony, and began the short climb down. Seeing him head down the path that wound round the back of the hotel and would no doubt see him stroll into the front entrance without a care in the world, she turned away and headed back into the bedroom.

* * *

Anderson stepped out of the bathroom for one final time that evening. Molly, being sat on the bed, had a set of tartan pyjamas at her side. She sipped delicately at her champagne. Shutting the door behind him, Anderson’s brow furrowed. Molly tilted her head in a silent question.

“The champagne—”

“I sent the bottle away with the bellboy,” Molly remarked, her eyes shining. “We don’t need it, after all.”

Anderson gave an excited jig and eagerly strolled forward, sitting himself beside his wife. Yet before he could say or do anything, Molly picked up and pressed the second glass of champagne into his hand. She gently held her glass to his.

“To us.”

Anderson’s gaze traced over her. 

“To us,” he declared, throwing back his head as he knocked back the entirety of his champagne.

He was snoring within less than a second. Molly giggled. It was often a struggle to get Anderson to remember his intolerance to alcohol, as well as the side effects of it. Kissing his forehead, she helped him up and into bed, pulling the blankets over him. Happily, he continued to snore. Molly, letting out a soft sigh, slid in beside him and tucked her head against her pillow. 

At least, after all the events of the night, she would finally get the one thing she had yearned for: a peaceful, and restful, sleep.


	135. Eternally Together, Forever Apart (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow-up to my Ladyhawke AU (which can be found in chapter 131). I said it wouldn't happen, but my brain had other ideas. 
> 
> I'll provide a little bit of context to this part: Lestrade is a soldier and the captain of the Bishop's guards, having taken over the position from Sherlock when he and Molly were cursed by the bishop and forced to flee. John is Sherlock's friend and a former soldier (who fought alongside Sherlock and Lestrade in battle) who retired after the fallout from Molly and Sherlock's secret marriage to become a priest. Molly was originally supposed to be the mistress of the bishop, but her falling in love with and secretly marrying Sherlock angered the Bishop and caused him to put the curse on them.
> 
> Anyway, I'll shut up now. Enjoy the story!

“De profundis clamavi ad te domine, domine exuadi vocem meam.” The church bells rang out. The evening sky burned umber. Acrid smoke unfurled from the flames. People screamed, scattered and ran towards the one place they believed shelter. Their palms shattered at the doors. Their voices grew hoarse with pleading.

Gregory’s palm tightened against the hilt of his sword. He turned away from the window.

“Fiant aures tuae intendentes in vocem deprecaionis meae.” The bishop’s words were whispers now. His knuckles were white in their grip. The gold crucifix at his neck, in his hands, glinted. A thud, deep and booming and rattling, made him jump. His prayers grew softer, faster. Gregory advanced down the steps of the altar. Against the stone floor, the heavy weight of his footsteps echoed. Another boom of a thud. The door’s hinges rattled, and the wood seemed to buckle, twist, from the pressure.

“Si iniquitates observaveris domine domine—”

The doors swung open.

A woman, blonde, the hem of her ragged garments wet, led the cries and shouts and pleads that formed the advancing cacophony. Gregory stumbled back from the force of it, the people pushing past him. They parted to both sides of the cathedral to stand among the friars and huddled together, kissing and embracing one another in relief until eventually, silence. The sound of metal against metal sang out, echoing out against the stone walls. The length of his longsword shone. His opponent however, barely looked at him.

“Lower your sword. My fight is not with you,” Sherlock said evenly. A sheen of sweat clung to his features, blood smudged on his dark robes. His hair was matted. Lestrade remained where he stood. Sherlock’s mouth lilted with a smile. Lestrade’s sword slowly lowered. It was an expression he had seen plenty of times on the battlefield, when they had fought side by side, blood and earth staining their skin and smoke blinding their sight. That was before they had taken up the black of the Bishop’s guards. Before her.

He stepped aside.

* * *

John rolled the hilt of his knife between his forefinger and thumb idly. His attention was focused on the night sky. In the distance, in the far distance, he could hear the screams and yells as Sherlock fought his way through towards his goal. The Bishop. The hawk perched on his arm twittered, feathers ruffling.

“She won’t know what’s happened,” Sherlock had said before his departure, tying his sword to his side. He threw his cloak onto his shoulders, eyeing his friend.

“When the church bells ring,” he started, but he didn’t finish the sentence. The plan was already known to them both. It was useless for him to go over it again. So, turning away and not looking back, Sherlock had made his departure.

Now, the church bells rang out over the square.

 _Day without night_ , John reminded himself. He glanced up the sky. Clouds blocked the sun. The church bells continued to ring. He raised his dagger.  _A day without night, a night without day._

* * *

Sherlock raised his sword, though his arm—bleeding, Greg noticed—trembled with the weight of it.

“Bishop.”

The word, quietly spoken as it was, made the Bishop jolt. The crucifix fell from his fingers, and clattered against the stone. He turned. His skin was pallid and pale, drained. His eyes, once bright with malice, were pools of fear. His mouth fell, agape. Sherlock advanced, his pace almost languid, but said no word. Something had died within him. His wit was gone, his compassion fled. The bishop stumbled back, his hands flailing out behind him. He grabbed onto nothing. He collapsed, sinking onto his knees.

Sherlock was silent still. He reached forward, and touched the tip of his sword against the bishop’s chest, against his heart. Carefully, he drew it back. The bishop, desperate, looked over to Lestrade, eyes wide with begging. Lestrade’s jaw tightened. He had been commanded to hunt, to kill for the man who called himself a leader but thought nothing of his flock, and now that same man wished for his pity. Sherlock’s hand settled on the bishop’s shoulder. Yet it was only until the bishop looked back to him, and he was able to see his enemy’s fear in all its glory, that Sherlock made to smile.

“For her.” Two words, snarled out. Snappish, brutish. Darkness crossed over Sherlock’s features. He angled his arm a little. His grin widened.

“Sherlock?” The voice was soft, small. Tentative. Lestrade looked up. Through the window, he saw it. The sun, encased in darkness. Sherlock froze, and his sword fell from the Bishop’s chest. He sank to his knees as the bishop, hearing the voice that had called Sherlock's name and was once a voice he had once declared as only his, slowly raised his head. Heartbreak joined his fear.

* * *

Molly, in all her humanity, all her sweetness, stood in the doorway; a small figure against the dying light. Behind her stood John Watson with a long, thin dagger rested in his palm. 

She reached out. Her laughter, light and nervous, was strange against the silence.

“Look at her.” Sherlock’s voice cracked, but his gaze was steady and he rose to his feet, fingers clutching over his sword’s hilt. The bishop turned his head away, burying his face in his hands, shielding himself from the one sight he thought impossible and Lestrade found himself moving forward. The tip of his sword touched at his former master’s neck.

“ _Look_  at her, Bishop,” he said, coldly.

The bishop’s hands trembled and twitched against his skin, but he obeyed. His gaze fell on her, and his eyes grew wet, tears slipping down, down his cheek. Lestrade struggled to find sympathy for the man.

Sherlock turned. Joy, pure and unadulterated joy, made her smile shine as she moved up the path towards him. Sherlock stilled at the feeling of her hand gently cupping at her cheek, but he reached up, taking her hand with his to gently kiss at her palm. She smiled at his touch, but when she turned her head, and her eyes locked onto the bishop, that same smile faded. Her expression instead grew cold. Blank. Devoid of any triumph, or of any hate. For the first time, Lestrade noticed that in her hands were the tools that had so cruelly marked her curse, and her pale fingers clasped tighter around as she broke away from Sherlock and walked towards the altar.

Reaching the Bishop, she outstretched her palms. Without a word, or hesitation, she dropped the tools into his lap and turned from him.

It happened quicker than Lestrade could register it. A pained, anguished shout roared from the Bishop and he shot to his feet, wrenched Lestrade’s sword from his grip and made to run towards Molly, the sword aimed high. The blonde woman, seeing it, sprinted forward.

“Sherlock!”

Spinning on his heels, Sherlock threw his sword and Lestrade stumbled back as the bishop, so white hot with jealousy, was thrown back towards the ground. The sword was embedded deep into his stomach, and blood oozed from the corners of his mouth, staining his garments. His crucifix, abandoned, lay beside him.

The blonde woman turned, embracing tightly John in relief as silence fell over the cathedral. Molly, her eyes fixed on the dead bishop, reached out behind her. Sherlock’s hand slipped easily into hers and it was his touch that made her look away. When he looked to her, she smiled again and their grip around each other's hands tightened before they, together, began to walk towards the doors.

There, Sherlock paused. Molly smiled wider, letting go of his hand. Her fingertips caressed the edges of his jaw, as if she couldn’t quite believe he was real.

“Sherlock…”

Wordlessly, he wrapped his hands around her waist, easily pulling her closer. He buried her head against her neck, his hands moving up the path of her back, his fingertips dancing against the edges of her hair. Strange how something so familiar could feel brand new. She was truly, utterly Molly. His wife, his lover, his friend. His companion. A sigh, long and heavy with its relief, fell from him as he gently pressed his forehead to hers.

“I love you,” he murmured. The warmest of smiles lighted against his mouth as he spoke. “I love you.”

She replied in kind, the words a breath on her lips, and they sealed their union with a kiss.


	136. Angels and Demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt of: "Can I send you a prompt? AU where Molly is an angel and Moriarty is a demon, both fighting for Sherlock's soul. I re-watched TRF and Moriarty's line of "on the side of the angels" just got me thinking."
> 
> TW: Depictions/mentions of drug use. Rated T.

Waking, she took a moment, and breathed. The air was cold, a shard of ice that clung against her lungs.

 _Fire._  The word dashed across her mind. She pressed her palm against the mud. Winter frost crackled underneath her fingertips.  _Flames._ She sat herself up, soft strands of hair floating down past her shoulders and across her face. She flexed her shoulders a little. No sensation, no sound came. It served as a horrible, hurtful reminder.

Branches rustled above her. Fingers, thin fingers that could only belong to an adult, pushed through the tangle of green and brown. Blue eyes found her. 

The eyes frowned. Full pink lips moved, words clumsily forming. Slurred.  _“My patch,”_  the mouth declared. She blinked. The eyes scanned her.

“Move,” the voice commanded. She did not move, but leaned forward, staring out. City lights shone out against the darkness, yellow and gold and silver. In a park, in a city. That’s where she was. Carols were being sung, somewhere in the distance. Her heart, beating so fast, warmed to hear the words. They reminded her of  _home_.

More of the world passed her eyes as the man sighed heavily and brushed the branches further apart, crawling inside. He was thin, almost gaunt; his clothes hung from his skinny frame and his skin was grey, pallid. The thick and bitter stench of smoke clung to him.

“You must be clever,” he mumbled, turning to arrange the branches in such a way that the hole he had made could no longer be seen. He briefly shifted his gaze towards her before dropping it back to the ground. His eyes were dim, any emotion numbed long ago. “The police don’t usually look around here.”

“Police.” She knew who they were. She had seen them, in the past, in all their different forms and names. “Are you a criminal?”

He chuckled, and sat beside her, his legs curling up to his chest, but he gave no answer. His hands delved inside his pockets. What he brought out, she did not recognise.

“What are you doing?” she asked quietly. He rolled up his sleeve. Glancing at her, he pressed a thin strip of material into her hands.

“Tie it,” he ordered. He gestured to the upper section of his arm. “Around here.”

Realisation made her cold. Her hold on the fabric tightened. The fall had made her naïve, yes, like a child; but a child, she knew, was clever and more observant than any mortal might’ve realised. She shook her head.

He sighed and grabbed the fabric from her hands. Despite his appearance, he was strong. Apparently in mind and will, as well as body. His fingers deftly wrapped the fabric around his arm, and worked quickly at forming a knot. He glanced at her as he reached towards the ground. His smile was wicked, almost sadistic.

“You might want to look away for this.” He spoke his words with a painfully casual manner. She raised her head, but as his eyes widened and gradually glazed over and his eyelids fluttered close, she turned away. There was only so much she could witness.

* * *

She created the name of Molly Hooper. It had seemed like a good human name. Friendly enough to make others comfortable, plain enough for people to forget it as soon as they turned their backs to her. 

Her choice of career too, was one that she had deliberately chosen. No-one ever wanted to face the idea of, or even speak about, death; so it was unlikely anyone she encountered would want to remember her. 

Every single detail, every single thing about her was created to make her invisible. It was a pity she never took into account a young man she never thought she would meet again.

* * *

It was a little under a year after her fall when she met him, now well-dressed in a suit with filled out cheeks and bright, inquisitive eyes. It was just over two minutes after said meeting that she remembered who he was. She immediately excused herself from his company with a smile, and ran down the corridor until she could breathe again.

“He won’t recognise you,” she murmured, “he won’t, he won’t, he  _won’t_.” He couldn’t have done. He had been high, more focused on the drugs than any stranger he’d encountered.

It took five minutes for her to believe her own lie.

It took her another six months to realise that, in being so focused on one thing, she had entirely forgot to dismiss another set of feelings entirely.

Another set of feelings which, by the time she tried to fight them, had already engulfed her.

* * *

“I was wondering – if you’d like to have coffee.” She had witnessed love, crushes and flights of fancy before, of course she had. But she had never experienced it. Until he had come along. 

She had fought against it, always that cold December night at the back of her mind, but his mind burned too brightly for her to ignore. So she asked him out for coffee. She had seen Meena do it before now, on men she had liked, and it had seemed to work for her.

Of course, Molly realised as she watched Sherlock stroll out of the lab, with Meena the feeling was usually mutual.

* * *

When she first met James Moriarty, he called himself Jim—“just Jim”—and laughed at her jokes and commented on her blog. Bolstered by the admiration, she presented him to Sherlock. Another thing she had picked up from some women’s magazine or other. (She figured Molly Hooper would be the sort of woman to devour those sorts of things.) That too, failed spectacularly and ended with her fleeing from the lab, eyes brimming with tears.

Yet she wore a smile when she walked into the pub to see Jim already sat in the far corner, two drinks in front of him. He greeted her by kissing her on the cheek as she sat down.

“So, meeting the famous Sherlock Holmes,” he said with a laugh, eyebrows rising briefly, “that was – an experience.”

“Mm.” She couldn’t find the words, or the energy, for a full reply. Jim took a gulp of his drink, eyes glinting. He set the glass back down, tapping the sides of it with his fingers.

“His soul would be a good one to collect, I think.”

She whipped round at his words. He flicked a grin at her but before she could think to speak a word, his eyes flashed black. Her mouth dropped open, but he pressed a finger to her lips. He shook his head. His eyes faded back to a dark brown.

“I know. It’s a surprise. But you can’t say you weren’t expecting it.”

His smiles had always been too sweet. His laughter too loud. But years of living like this, like a mortal, she had got rusty. Had failed to see what was right in front of her the whole time. The knowledge burned at her.

“You can’t.” It was a pitiful plea. Jim laughed.

“Why not? Ex-addict, always struggling to stay on the wagon, always searching for that extra shot of adrenaline to replace that ache he can’t quite get rid of – you know as well as I do he’s perfect for a spot on my list.” Jim stood and stepped away, as if to leave, but turned back at the last moment and pressed his palms against the table. His voice became a soft murmur. “I’m going to have so much  _fun_ collecting him.”

“There’s something good about him.” The words tumbled from her mouth. And they were true. There was something good. It wasn’t just temptation that kept him working, kept him searching. She had seen it, in the lab, when he’d cracked a case or come across a breakthrough in one of his seemingly endless experiments. A smile, not malicious or triumphant, but joyful. Happy. 

Jim raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that? Or is that your little crush talking?”

Red flooded her cheeks, and she had to look away. Jim tapped once against the wood of the table, but he left her with no triumphant word or promise in the manner of most demons. No, he was clever. Of course he was clever. She knew him now. Knew him for exactly what—who—he was.

Molly’s grip around her glass tightened. The glass shattered against her hand, but she barely felt it. The landlord, seeing the blood drip from her palm and fingers, called for his wife and she, all smiles and sweetness, tended to the wound and wrapped a bandage around the cut. Their words were nothing to Molly. Only one thought, one goal, ran through her head.

She wasn’t going to let him win.


	137. Woman Inherits the Earth. (Jurassic Park AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yes.

“Mrs Hudson—” Molly leaped into the Jeep, slamming the car door behind her, and looked towards the museum that had once seemed so enticing. The woman in question hurried down the steps, roaring sounding in her wake.

“Yes dear?”

“I’ve decided, after some deliberation, not to endorse your park.”

Mrs Hudson climbed into the Jeep beside her. She gave the building one last glance.

“So have I.”

* * *

“You know – if I was a chicken, I’d probably be well roasted by now.” Sally dipped her head back and smiled, wiping the sweat from her neck. “I’m sure of it.”

“If you were a chicken, you wouldn’t be able to help me dig,” a stubborn sounding voice called from the shallow hole at Sally’s feet. Molly Hooper’s face quickly popped up, and she raised an eyebrow as she scanned her colleague. “Not that you’re helping much now either, come to think of it.”

“We agreed to take turns supervising. Anyway, we’ve got plenty of other people helping,” Sally said, gesturing towards the rest of the dig. She looked back to Molly, and matched her friend’s raised eyebrow. Before either of the two of them could make a reply however, a call came from behind them. Both Sally and Molly looked. A figure, obscured in the distance, stood at the boundary of the dig, a cane in their hand as they waved. A Jeep was located just behind them. Molly frowned.

“Who do you think that is?”

“Dunno. One of our dear benefactor’s lawyers? They’ve been badgering me for a report recently.”

Molly allowed herself a grimace.

“Because what we really need right now is a lawyer.” Turning her head, she stretched out her hand. “C’mon. We might as well face the music.”

“Alright,” Sally sighed and she gripped tightly at Molly’s hand, hauling her up and onto her feet. “But if they talk to me about finance reports, I won’t hesitate to give ‘em a good kick up the—”

“A kick up the what dear?” As one, Sally and Molly whirled around. The woman in front of them, elderly with brown hair, rounded glasses, a warm smile and her cane in hand, stuck out her hand. “Sorry, I saw you two talking and thought it might be better I come to you instead of you coming to me. The name’s Martha Hudson.”

Sally’s eyes widened, Molly’s jaw went slightly slack, and it was with a degree of hesitation that they both reached forward and shook Martha’s hand. After all, it wasn’t every day someone’s benefactor made a personal visit.

* * *

On the suggestion of their benefactor of going somewhere a little less busy than an archaeological dig, Sally and Molly soon found themselves sat around a table in their campervan, both quite confused by how at ease Martha Hudson was with the whole situation at hand, almost as if she were visiting relatives she saw almost every day. The fact she insisted on the three of them drinking champagne—“I’ve bought my own as well, look!” she’d declared proudly—was another cause for their puzzlement.

“You’re very – um – happy.” Sally ventured the statement with some caution, and Mrs Hudson grinned in return, tucking her hand under her chin.

“That’s because I’ve got a proposal for you two.”

“A proposal?” Molly shifted in her seat, eyebrows shooting upwards. “What kind?”

“I want to finance – fully – the next four years of your dig.”

Sally, who at that point had dared to try and drink the champagne in front of her, just about stopped herself from spitting all over their benefactor. “Four years?!” she squeaked. “No, you’ve already been far too generous—”

“I’ll only provide the finance if you’ll do something in exchange for me,” Martha explained. The excitement in Sally’s eyes dimmed, though Molly leaned forward.

“What’s the something?” she asked.

“Well, for a number of years, I’ve been devoting myself to a little pet project. A pastime is how I usually describe it. And I need you two to come and –  _support_  it, if you like.”

Sally frowned. “Financially or…?”

“No, no! Not financially, not at all! Rather, I need you to endorse it. I’d go fully ahead with the project, but the lawyers who represent my investors are proving stubborn about the need for an endorsement. And there’s no-one else I’d trust expect the two of you to do so.”

“Okay. That sounds—”

“Hang on, hang on,” Sally interjected quickly. “What  _kind_  of project are we supposed to be endorsing?”

“A park,” Martha said brightly. Her eyes glittered. “More of an island, if we’re going to be technical. It’s just a few miles south off of Costa Rica, and – considering both your respective fields – I think you’d find it rather remarkable.”

* * *

Molly would always claim that the material goods of consumerism and finance were not nearly as interesting to her as bones and millions of years of history, but she had to admit, it was hard to say no to the promise of £200,000 and four more years of discovery. She and Sally, somewhat overcome and overwhelmed by said promises, had agreed immediately and their heads hadn’t really stopped swimming until they’d stepped off Martha’s commissioned jet and into the hotel that would prove to be their overnight stop before heading off to the island. Martha had been gleefully vigilant in keeping her cards close to her chest in regards to the particulars of her project, only letting slight clues slip through.

“It’s probably nothing – just the whims of an eccentric billionaire,” Sally had said, biting a little at her thumb as she spoke. Molly had nodded.

“We should get a flight back.”

Sally had flicked her gaze towards her. “We should.”

Such declarations had not stopped the two of them from following Martha out of the hotel the following morning and into a waiting helicopter. “Just one more stop, and then we’ll be off to the island,” Martha had shouted over the sounds of the whirring blades. “The thorn in my side and his accomplice.”

The thorn in Martha’s side turned out to be a lawyer, a somewhat nervy man with combed hair and a not at all well-kept beard, who introduced himself as Philip Anderson. He was the sort of man who chattered and worried and lectured. Sally shot Molly a despairing look as soon as he climbed inside the helicopter.

The man who Anderson seemed to lecture the most was the man accompanying him. Well-groomed and well-dressed, he seemed utterly out of place inside the helicopter, and his tendency towards silence proved a stark contrast to Anderson’s constant, unyielding attempts at conversation. He was dark-haired, with a heavy coat over his equally dark-coloured suit. Molly considered making a remark about his choice of clothing, but when he glanced at her, she scotched all ideas of interaction with the man. From his fashion to his manner, every part of him showed that he was not a man who thrived on social interaction.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Martha said, gesturing towards Sally and Molly respectively as she spoke, “this is Sally Donovan, and this is Molly Hooper.”

He nodded once. “The scientists. I vaguely remember you gushing about them.”

“And quite rightly!” Martha said, ignoring the petulant tone of voice. She aimed a smile at Molly. “Forgive Mr Holmes, Molly. Being a mathematician, he hasn’t quite become used to other humans.”

Molly laughed. “I see you’ve known him for a while then?”

He glanced up at that, his eyes narrowing. “That isn’t a hard thing to guess. Her insult of me clearly shows some familiarity.”

His words brought a long, still silence into the helicopter, a silence which was only broken a stifling of a laugh from Sally. Molly eyed her, smiling.

“To answer your question dear, I’ve known Sherlock since he was a baby. Used to work with his mother, you see.”

“So I assume your mother was a mathematician?” Molly asked, looking towards him. Sherlock was short in his reply.

“Yes.”

That proved the end of their conversation. Martha’s excited exclamation and hurry to point out of the window however, luckily served to keep the atmosphere light. And, as Molly indulged the elder woman’s excitement and stared out the window at the island they were fast approaching, Sally just so happened to glance towards the mathematician who had proved so unsociable. It was hard for anyone like Anderson to see, but she, for a brief moment, witnessed a rather curious sight. The stoic mathematician was impressed.

* * *

Molly sank slowly onto her knees. Slowly, she shook her head. Every thought, every question flooded into her brain. Astonishment wasn’t really the word. All throughout their journey, Martha had laughed and teased and frustrated her with endless clues that said everything but meant nothing and now? Now Molly could see exactly why. This was the denouement of it all, the punchline, and while she was proudly one of the world’s leading paleontologists, it was at that moment that she could think of only one thing to say.

Sally, pressing her hand onto Molly’s shoulder, was the one who said it for her.

“Fucking hell.”

Fucking hell indeed. A whole, living Brachiosaurus, standing right in front of her, eating leaves from a tree! Molly burst out a full-bodied laugh, and glanced back at the Jeep they had so hurriedly climbed out of just moments before. Anderson was slumped in his seat, probably having fainted (he didn’t seem like the sort of man who could fully register the sight of a dinosaur and live to tell the tale). Sherlock was still sat there, but an astonished smile was lit across his face.

A screech made Molly look around. In the far-off distance, there was a lake, the water shimmering, dancing against the sunlight. More of the Brachiosaurus were, together, moving through the water, up onto the bank and dinosaurs, of all shape and breed and size, were gathered around the banks of the lake, drinking the water, all of them living and breathing creatures. Sally looked towards Martha.

“How fast are these things exactly?”

Martha shrugged, still grinning like a schoolgirl. “Not too sure on the Brachiosaurus, but we did register 32 miles an hour with the T-Rex.”

Sally’s hand slipped from Molly’s shoulder. Molly whipped her head around, mouth falling wide open. “You have a – T-Rex?!” she squeaked.

Sally jumped about a foot in the air with an excited shout and grabbed Martha’s arm. “Oh my God! An actual,  _real life_  T-Rex?”

“Yes!” Martha laughed, and Molly felt her head swim. A T-Rex. A Tyrannosaurus Rex, living, roaming freely, around an island a few miles south of Costa Rica. Her back hit the grass and her hands covered her face, her chest heaving with her laughter. What else could she do, when faced with a situation of such  _impossible_ magnitude?

She heard Sally and Martha calling her name and they huddled over her, staring at her.

“Oh dear,” Martha murmured, reaching out to touch at Molly’s forehead. “Molly, is everything alright?”

Molly nodded and slowly drew her hands away from her face. “I’m – it’s – fine, Mrs Hudson. I just,”—she laughed again—“I just really love your park.”


	138. A Perfect Friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 221bcupcake-street asked for a "falling in love with their best friend's partner" AU. Shades of John/Molly in this drabble, and working on the theory that was present during the 2012-2014 hiatus that "Molly" was actually a nickname for Mary.

Sherlock expected a lot of things to take place when he returned to the land of the living. He expected John to be quite cross (he was correct in that). He expected Lestrade would be relieved (also correct). He expected Mrs Hudson would be delighted (again, correct).

He’d thought he’d had expectations about Molly; but then, when she’d turned around on his soft call of his name, he’d found that in all reality, he hadn’t had expectations of Molly Hooper. 

As he stepped forward, and let his opening words die on his lips as his gaze fell on her hands, he found that he had no expectations at all. None whatsoever.

She smiled, a really quite genuine smile, and twirled the ring against her finger.

"He proposed just yesterday. Restaurant, champagne — the whole works." She laughed, biting softly at her lip. "He’s quite the romantic, when he wants to be."

He grunted in reply, giving a single nod. Her eyes narrowed, concern as ever etched into her features. But only when ever he was in her presence, it seemed. Was he that volatile a man? Apparently so.

"You’re — you’re not upset, are you? John said he’d speak to you about it."

"He’s currently busy. Being angry with me."

Her hands flew to her face. “Oh my god — I’m — this must be — this was the worst way you could’ve found out, isn’t it?”

Not exactly the worst. She could’ve been wearing a wedding ring instead of an engagement ring. Sherlock swallowed slightly, and grinned.

"Good afternoon, Molly."

Yes. He’d had no expectations of her. What he had, he realised later that evening, was hopes.

Hopes he quietly kept to himself to such an extent that when he smiled and raised a glass to the new Mr and Mrs Watson, neither of them suspected a thing.


	139. His Quiet Strength.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt of: "Sherlock gets drafted into the war, just before he leaves he realises he likes Molly. He tells her they'll go out when he comes back and they share one kiss before he leaves. He comes back some months later, physically disfigured, and ignores Molly because he thinks she deserves someone whole."
> 
> I changed the prompt so that they were married before Sherlock went off to war, and made it a WW2 AU.

The guard’s whistle echoes around the train station, and Sherlock finds his chest quite genuinely hurts. Strange, the side effects of love; of sentiment. Strange, but also rather, well, inevitable. He has known this woman for two years, and for all that time, she has been here, by his side through everything, as a friend, a confidant and now, most recently, a wife.

Falling in love with Molly Hooper has been both a slow and sudden process. (Slow simply because it has taken him this long to realise the significant part she plays in his life; sudden because for God’s sake, he’s wasted enough time already, there’s no point in hesitation now, especially not in this situation.) At first, she was a friendly face in which he found an odd, muted sense of reassurance whenever he felt particularly wound or confused by the general state of the world.

Fingers tucked against the lapels of his jacket, she smiles up at him. No tears, no melodramatics. Just a soft smile, and she reaches up and presses her mouth to his. His hand cups at her waist, his fingers just slightly tightening against the material of her coat. She reaches up on tiptoe, her arms slowly wrapping around his neck, and their embrace deepens.

Reassurance is a fleeting thing, an emotion that easily fades with time. Security, comfort. Love. Those stick.

Molly Hooper represents all of that, and more. She is his quiet strength. His centre point.

No wonder it hurts to leave her.

—

The door opens, Mycroft Holmes steps into her tiny little flat, Toby gives a short and curious meow, and she knows immediately. She stands.

"Where is he?"

Mycroft sighs. “He told me to give you a message.”

She folds her arms over her chest, and raises an eyebrow. It’s been six months since they finally got their act together, and the ring on her finger is still heavy, the shine almost worn away from the nights she’s spent in her bed, waiting and hoping and praying. If there’s one thing she does not have time for, it’s nobility.

"Tell me where he is, Mycroft."

—

The doors to the ward opens, and her husband receives her with a groan. He glares at his elder brother. He barely makes an effort to look at her.

"Mycroft, I told you not to bring her."

"And I insisted on coming," she says, and her fingers reach out, wanting—needing—to touch at his arm. He easily pulls himself out of her reach.

"You run the whole country," he snaps with disdain, his focus still on his brother, "and yet you bow to the whims of one single woman?"

That’s enough. With a huff, she takes her husband’s jaw in her fingers and practically wrenches his head around to look at her.

"That woman is your wife, Sherlock Holmes."

"You won’t want to be that soon enough." It isn’t the blunt delivery, or the cold tone, that has her letting her hand drop to her side. He’s so  _accepting_  of his own words. It’s as if he’s already made the decision for her. Behind her, Mycroft sighs and steps forwards, his fingers tightening a little against the handle of his umbrella.

"Just show her Sherlock." It’s like he’s speaking to a child. "Best for all parties involved."

Sherlock sighs, and for a moment lets his head roll back onto the pillow, before he straightens up. His hand hovers over the edge of the blankets.

"She’ll at least understand."

Molly eyes her brother-in-law. “ _She_  is still here.”

A smile twitches at the edges of her husband’s mouth. His fingers clasp at the blanket’s edge. He sits up a little straighter.

The bed blankets are peeled away, and that’s it. Her husband’s great secret, the one that caused him to ignore and repel her, is revealed. It almost makes her want to cry.

"Apparently it was either my leg or my life." Sherlock smiled, but it didn’t take. "That was what the doctor said anyway."

There’s silence. For a long time, there’s nothing.

Molly raises her head, and stares at her husband. 

"I do love you, and you are a genius but sometimes Sherlock, just sometimes…"

"I’m what?"

Her mouth stretches into a smile. She can’t help it. “A total prat. Of the highest order.”

Before he can say another bloody word, she throws her arms around him and crushes her mouth to his. She’s not daft, she knows what effect this will have on him, her, the pair of them, that life will of course be more difficult now, but she is his wife and he is her husband and she will be damned before she lets him go over some silly old missing leg. He’ll have to do much worse if he ever wants to be rid of her.

She tells him as much. He laughs. It’s that full, beautiful laugh which she has missed so much, and when he kisses her all over again and she hears him murmur that he wouldn’t ever want to be rid of her, her smile widens into a grin.


	140. A Study in Gaining Sherlock Holmes' Attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by liathwen-slays-dragons [221b Fanfic Challenge](http://liathwen-slays-dragons.tumblr.com/post/113226144043/lias-221b-fanfic-challenge), which was to take a prompt and two lines, one of which would start the fic, and the other would end the fic.
> 
> Prompt: Someone straddling the other while they’re “trying to read” and slowly getting them to put the book away.
> 
> Lines: “Are you even listening to me?” / “You don’t need to be so gentle.”

“Are you even listening to me?”

He doesn’t even have to look at her to know that she’s standing in front of him, hands folded over her chest and her head tilted, her hair falling down past her shoulders. He smirks a little and thumbs at the page of his book, turning it over with a slight flick of his wrist. In front of him, Molly sighs. She moves towards the side of his chair, kneeling down. Her fingers reach out, and softly trace a line up his neck, around the edge of his ear and against his jaw.

“All I want is for you to do the washing up for once, Sherlock.”

He hums in response.

“Still a no.”

She groans, and her hand drops. She stands, and for a moment, he thinks she’s gone to sulk in their bedroom. The sensation of her thighs against his legs, and the weight of her slowly sinking on his lap, proves that idea wrong. He holds the book a little closer to his face.

She, however, is Molly Hooper, and she can be rather ingenious when she wants to be. Her hands press against his chest, and her fingers slowly begin to trail up, up towards his neck.

He slams the book down on his chest and she yelps, quickly withdrawing her hands. He finally eyes her.

“I’m  _trying_  to read.”

She matches his look with a smirk of her own, and quirks an eyebrow. “When your book is upside down?”

Ah. That perhaps makes the illusion a little harder to pass off. With all the casualness he can manage with her straddling him in this way, he turns the book the right way up and resumes reading. She gives a really rather adorable huff and scoops her hair out of her eyes. Pressing her lips together, brow creasing just a little in that way of hers, she rests her hands gently on his torso.

Feeling the first of his shirt buttons being undone makes him lower his book. She grins and, without a single care in the world, pops open the second button. The third follows just as quickly. He tilts his book back up. As one hand continues to work at his shirt buttons, the other reaches down and untucks the hem of the garment from his trousers. He grunts slightly. She  _isn’t_  winning this one, if he can help it.

His shirt flutters open and her hands touch at his now bare torso. That makes things a little more difficult, he decides. Giving up with her hands, she lowers her head. Her mouth presses warm, open-mouthed kisses to his skin. He tilts his head back, raising the book with it and keeping his gaze entirely focused on the words (he barely registers a single one of said words, but no matter).

She takes the opportunity. Leaning closer against him, she holds his hips and kisses up his chest, her mouth forging a path up towards his neck. Even though they know each other’s bodies better than they know their own, her kisses are still light, gentle, and exploratory; the effect is maddening and Jesus Christ, but sod the book.

It falls to the ground with a clunk, and his hands fall to her hips, and he tugs at her, urging her closer towards him. She laughs, her hands on his shoulders, and she presses a kiss to just underneath his jaw. He fights back a groan, but at least manages to speak.

“Molly.” She lifts her head at his call of her name, aiming an inquisitive look at him. He gives a wolfish grin. “You really – you don’t need to be so gentle.”


	141. Rags and Tatters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt of a Howl's Moving Castle Sherlolly AU.

There was nothing left now. Nothing of the beautiful, ramshackle castle, so trapped as it had been with memories, that she had made her home. Molly was glad of it. The castle, she saw now, had never been a source of shelter. Maybe it had been, once. The years however, had corrupted and twisted it until it was nothing but a shadow hanging over everyone who lived there. A fitting end then, to have it crumble to nothing but a few planks of wood.

“Is he dead?” Archie chewed at his thumb, knelt by his mentor’s side. Anxious, scared. Molly understood him completely. Reaching out, she cupped at his hand. She smiled and shook her head.

“I don’t believe he is.” She looked over to her side. The blue flame flickered gently between the witch’s fingers. Her old, sunken eyes widened for a moment as she realised, but her chest heaved with a sigh. She held out her hand.

“Take it,” she said and she looked at Molly. “Before I go and change my mind.”

Molly nodded and stood. Carefully, the wood creaking softly with every movement she made, she bent down and scooped up into her palm the object that had proved to create such trouble. Funny, how a heart could be that way.

“You’ll be alright, won’t you?” she asked softly. The fire demon’s eyes slowly opened. She was weakened, but still strong.

“Best to get it over with,” the demon replied, and her eyelids fluttered closed. Molly let out a breath as she knelt back by Sherlock’s side. Hopefully, this would work. Oh God, of  _course_  it would work. If it didn’t, then they were all well and truly stuffed. Straightening her shoulders, Molly let her hands hover over Sherlock’s chest.

“Go on,” Archie urged. “Please, Molly.”

She nodded once, overturned her hands and pressed down, hard, on Sherlock’s chest. The acrid smell of smoke passed against her nose, but her eyes were soon blinded by the sharp, blue, bright sight of the fire demon, sparking with life, flying around their heads.

“I’m free!” The fire demon laughed, dancing against the wind. “I’m free!”

Molly laughed too, sitting back and brushing her fingers through her hair. She still wasn’t quite used to the shorter length of it, but she supposed that she would grow to like it, in time. She had proved herself rather remarkable at adapting in the past, after all.

A groan, and Archie’s excited exclamation of his mentor’s name, had Molly glancing back down. Sherlock stirred, his eyelids fluttering open. He smiled as he saw Archie.

“Good morning to you too.” Archie grinned to hear his mentor speak, but Sherlock’s own smile fell as his hand touched at his chest, and his brows furrowed. Molly leaned forward.

“How do you feel?” she asked gently. Sherlock turned his head towards her, tilting it a little. His frown deepened.

“Heavy.” A slow smile grew over his features and he pulled himself up. His eyes traced over her face. He reached forward, and Molly felt herself let out a breath as he touched at the length of her hair. His hand cupped at her cheek, almost as if it were as instinctual as it was to breathe and Molly leaned into his touch. “Your hair. It’s beautiful.”

"Thank you,” she whispered, her hand covering his. Both of their smiles widened, though Molly dropped her gaze. “Sherlock – your castle. It got destroyed.”

“Well then,” he breathed, leaning closer to her to drop a kiss on her cheek. “All the more reason to build another.”


	142. Gorilla. (Sally Donovan/Greg Lestrade)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> introspectivenavelgazer gave me the challenge of writing either a Mythea/Salstrade story inspired by Bruno Mars' "Gorilla". I chose Salstrade (Sally Donovan/Greg Lestrade), and happily took up the challenge.

She’s celebrating her promotion at work, she’s always made it a point never to get involved with colleagues (especially a superior) but the champagne is flowing, she hasn’t had it since October 2014, she’s feeling light-headed and the appeal of the silver fox is strong tonight.

He’s surprised her, with his efficiency and well, his skill. She’s always held the belief that one look at a man (or woman, even) and it’ll be instantly easy to tell if they’re good in bed or not. It’s proven to be a good ice-breaker game during parties anyway. When she first saw her boss lounging back in his chair and eating a croissant, crumbs spilling from his lips and onto the lapels of his jacket, she’d pegged him at the back of her mind as a 5, possibly a 6 if he had some help.

Now he runs his fingers up her back and pays sweet attention to her breasts with his warm mouth, and Sally Donovan has never been happier to have been proved wrong.

She grinds her hips against him and bends her head, swallowing his gasp with a clumsy, slightly desperate kiss. One of his hands slides towards her hips. The other slides between her legs, touching her in a way that has her cutting off any remark she might be making (she’s having mind-blowing sex, she hasn’t got time to remember what the hell’s tripping out of her mouth, he won’t remember it anyway) and letting out a deep, almost guttural groan.

* * *

The next morning, she wakes with the expectation that they’ll awkwardly greet each other and agree to act like professionals and forget the whole thing. She’s sure, later on, that there was a path of conversation that led to him joining her in the shower, just as there was a path to him softly caressing her breasts and leaving open-mouthed kisses on her shoulder while the water thundered over them. 

Yet as she shudders and along with him cries out increasingly loud moans, his wet body pressed against hers, his left and right arm wrapped tightly against her thighs and her waist respectively, she can’t for the life of her be bothered to remember what those paths were.

* * *

The appeal of the silver fox will wear off. She figured it would wear off when she’d sobered up, but the weekend and the new found bounce in her step when she walks into work on Monday, along with the blush she feels creeping up onto her cheeks when he sees her pass his office and throws her a wink and a knowing smile, causes her to realize that the appeal of the silver fox is not going to wear off for a very long time indeed.


	143. Flower for the Lady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ordinarilygraceful gave me the prompt of "Sherlock surprising Molly with flowers for Mothers Day. They don't have any children yet, or so she thinks".

The surprises start happening at very odd times. Two weeks after Valentine’s Day, she finds a cushion sitting on her office chair,perfectly positioned and dotted with cherries. When she picks it up with asmile, she discovers a Post-It note stuck to her computer screen. It only has his initials and four tiny “x” letters scrawled underneath.

The next comes a week later.

She comes into the flat, tired and yawning and droopy-eyed to find, on the kitchen table, a slice of chocolate cake. A scrap of paper is tucked underneath the plate.  _The rest is in the fridge. SH. xxxxx._

She’s on her third slice of the evening when he comes in (apparently Mycroft, a dismembered body and the threat of a third world war kept him from arriving earlier) and she reminds him as he sits down that her birthday isn’t for another three months. He has no response, except to smile to himself and softly kiss her temple, her neck and her shoulder. The cake is soon forgotten by the pair of them.

* * *

It’s been another two weeks. Padding out of their bedroom, she stretches, yawns and idly scratches at her side, running her fingers through her hair. 

She stops when she enters the living room and sees a brightly coloured flower bouquet, all pink carnations and yellow chrysanthemums. Her husband, great consulting detective, stands by the window, gazing out at the street as he plays his violin. She pads forward.

“Sherlock?” He turns. She clears her throat, picking up the flowers and turning them over in her hands. “These are – um –  _lovely._ ”

“Thought you’d like them,” he says, setting down his violin to one side. 

“Yeah – just, well – it’s Mother’s Day.” She glances up at him, eyebrow raised, and he swiftly meets her look with a tilt of his head. Hang on. She  _knows_  that look. Her expression darkens, and his smirk drops. Slowly, she raises to her feet.

“Molly—”

“You know something,” she says evenly. “What is it?”

He steps back. “I might’ve known this for a while.”

“Sherlock—” her voice is rising in its pitch, she can’t help it, that always happens, he knows something, something about her that she doesn’t and all sorts of things are running through her head.

“It’s nothing bad,” he says, with a winning and reassuring smile. Her frown deepens.

“What is it then?”

Sherlock lets out a breath. “You’re pregnant.”

“What?!” she squeaks. “I’m  _pregnant?_ ” 

She sinks back onto the sofa. So, yes, she was expecting something. Not that though. At least the surprises make sense now.

“So the notes – the kisses – they were telling me?”

“How far along you were, yes.” Sherlock gently sits beside her. His arm settles around her shoulders, the other hugging her waist. She sighs, settling into the embrace, her fingers smoothing over his T-shirt. It carries his scent. Aftershave, traces of coffee and bacon. At least he’s had breakfast this morning. There were days when she had to remind him. “Thought it would be a good way to tell you.”

She looks up at him, and can’t quite stop herself smiling. “Well, it’s sweet in theory.”

He bends his head, kissing her. His fingers smooth over her hair. “In truth, I was trying to soften the blow. Articles I read – and speaking to John, actually – led me to believe…”

“I know,” she interjects, giving his chest an affectionate pat. “But next time, if you do have an inkling, tell me. I’d rather find out under my own power, to be honest.”

“Hm.” He cocks an eyebrow, eyes twinkling when he registers the meaning of her words. “Next time?”

She smiles wider, and touches at her stomach. There’s a baby in there. Well, not technically a baby just yet, simply an embryo which will slowly develop into a fetus and grow into the boy (or girl) they have both yearned for over the last year. “Give another nine months.”

“Eight months,” he corrects. “You’re over a month along, remember.”

“True. Now go and—” She stops. Bolts upright. There it is. Her stomach, stirring. Queasy, feeling nauseous. She runs—sprints—towards the bathroom. Sherlock’s two steps behind her, and thoughtfully holds her hair back for her as she does the deed.

Yep. She’s definitely pregnant.


	144. Runaway. (Regency AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Hmmmn, what to ask... Oh, oh! Can you make a story with an As You Like It/Yentl scenario? Y'know, Molly pretending to be male in order to study? Sherlock being Sherlock. Hilarity and fuff ensues... Thank vous! :)" Anonymous prompt. Made it a Regency AU because I'd recently been listening to Georgette Heyer audiobooks at the time of writing this, and was a bit stuck in that era.

Molly Hooper had been brought up well. She had been taught when to smile, how to speak, and how to look. She hadn’t however, been taught how to deal with a situation where she was wedged behind a bush, the man she was perhaps not-so-secretly-after-all in love with pinned atop of her. When she did go to speak however, the man in question quickly clamped his hand over her mouth. His head turned, and blue eyes shifted, peering towards the road. Two men on horses passed.

"You find ‘er?"

"Course not," one of the lackeys sniffed as he spoke, "she’s gone and disguised ‘erself, ain’t she? Bloke back at the inn said so."

Seeing the warning look on her travelling companion’s face, Molly swallowed an indignant squeak.

"I knew it," she whispered, when the men had finally moved on, out of earshot, and as her companion drew his hand away from her mouth. "I knew we shouldn’t have trusted him!"

"All they know is that you’re disguised - they don’t know what as," her companion said easily. His eyes twinkled. She shifted, turning her head towards him, and narrowed her eyes.

"You  _knew._ " Her accusation came out in a whisper, and perhaps it was the hushed tone that made her sound so very petulant, and maybe it was that petulance which made the man atop of her chuckle and cock an eyebrow.

"I might’ve observed that he recognised you and made sure to bribe him to mislead our little band of followers after we’d left." He flicked a grin. "Call it ingenuity."

"It’s not ingenuity if you don’t tell anyone else," she hissed. "And how good is this disguise of yours if anyone can see through it?" 

He only shrugged and reached up, pulling the hat on her head further over her eyes.

"They’ll be taking the north road. We’ll take the south road." He jumped to his feet, brushed down the material of his dark coat and ruffled at whatever leaves might’ve fallen into his curls, letting them flutter easily to the ground. Molly huffed and propped herself onto her elbows, tilting her head at him. Sometimes, it was at the most inconvenient of moments that she was reminded just how and why she had ended up in this sort of situation. He only widened his grin, and held out his hand. "Come along Miss Hooper."

Molly sighed and, with some reluctance, took his hand and allowed herself to be pulled up.

* * *

High society was stifling. The dresses were tight, the activities were little and most importantly of all, the people were frightfully  _dull_. If one were to bring up a subject that didn’t involve A) social occasions or B) hunting, that person would be met by blank looks and an attempt at polite small talk. Molly had spent much of her life suffering those same empty smiles and so, simply to save herself from them, she soon grew into a quiet, silent creature who was known—through audible whispers and exchanges of gossip—to much prefer the company of books and the expanse of the outdoors than the excitement of a ball or a game of whist.

Wild, was how one potential suitor had described her, after witnessing her run into her father’s study with pinked cheeks, sweat on her brow and mud on her skirts. She hadn’t managed to begin her apology for her lateness before the suitor in question had departed. Her father had sighed, murmured under his breath and directed a smile at his youngest daughter. Her sisters, all beautiful and naturally possessing of behaviours that young ladies were supposed to have, had all been married off quickly and easily, and all to increasingly wealthy gentlemen. Fast approaching her 25th birthday, and still unwed and still quite unable to still her words when a particularly obnoxious suitor appeared to her, Molly was the exception to that rule.

Being such an exception, it was not unexpected that thoughts, dark, worrying thoughts, had crossed her mind many times in recent years. Often, it was when she was waving off each her sisters to their new lives that these new thoughts took hold. At first, such thoughts had been a tiny whisper, lodged in the back of her mind and therefore easy to ignore, but with every wedding she attended, and every goodbye she made, it had grown and bloomed into something entirely unavoidable. So she took it upon herself, as he was involved in the organisation of his library, to address the subject of these same thoughts with her father.

"Father…" she said quietly, pushing open the door to the library by an inch, but the rest of her question was dismissed when her father turned, books in hand and an eyebrow raised. Though a naturally jolly man, the predicament of his youngest daughter had led to a somewhat melancholy mood to take precedence, though his affection for her, which was great, had not waned.

"Molly," he greeted, smiling briefly at her. She nodded once and swallowed, shutting the door behind her.

"Father, I have a question."

Her father’s gaze flicked up over the top edge of his glasses and affixed itself onto her slowly approaching form. Clearly he had heard something in her tone.

"What is it, Molly?"

"Do you think that perhaps I’m -  _not_  - destined to be married?” She asked the question as loudly as she dared, but her nerves proved to lower the volume of her voice to the sound lower than that of a mouse. Her eyes fluttered shut and she, clasping her hands together, huffed a sigh and repeated the question in a louder, firmer tone.

Her father hesitated,  _umm_ ed,  _ahh_ ed and set down his books, crossing his arms behind his back. “I don’t suppose I can answer that question for - um - well - Molly, there’s been a - slight change made.”

She straightened up at this. “Change? Since this morning?”

"Yes. While you were out, a - gentleman called round."

"A - gentleman?"

Her father bit briefly at his bottom lip, his brow furrowed. Molly’s heart sank. She knew that look, that nervous appearance. She had known it all her life, and it was not one that often bore great news. 

"You remember Lord Sullivan’s son?"

Henry Sullivan, same as her age in years and the eldest son of a prestigious family, but an immature, odious gentleman who mostly took up space in her memory as a spoiled boy who, in his youth (which he had never quite grown out of), had found great pleasure in pulling at her hair and pushing her sisters into any nearby puddles or, on some occasions, ponds or lakes.

"Not him, Father, not him!" Her protestations were drowned out by her father staunchly and firmly explaining that he would not live forever, and, as she had spurned or turned away every potential suitor so far, the only option left was indeed Henry Sullivan.

"He can’t be the only option!" Molly pleaded. Her desperation was almost embarrassing. "Education—"

"Oh please, Molly!" Her father pressed his hand to his forehead, sighing heavily. "You know I am very fond and very proud of you, but we are not having this discussion again. Education is not for you. Marriage is your only option."

"I know, but - but to him? To Henry Sullivan?" Of all people! "I can’t—"

"When I die, this estate will go to your brother." Molly paused. Her brother, the heir to the estate and perhaps one of the most notorious rakes in all of England, more interested in fettering away what money he had than the saving of it. "He will no doubt run into the ground within, what, five years of taking possession of it? You know I don’t like to have such little faith in my own children, but as I advance in years, there are certain realities that both you and I have to face. And Molly, if you do not marry, you will face penury."

"But Lord Sullivan—"

"Is eager for the match," her father said loudly, fists clenched. Slowly, he sank into his chair. He looked at her. "Therefore, you will be married to Henry Sullivan a week on Saturday."

Molly’s jaw tightened, her eyes wet. So throttled was she by the quickness of the announcement, the shock of knowing who she was to be shackled to, she could not think of a word to say.

"Molly…" 

She didn’t stay to hear her father’s words. The door to the library slammed behind her.

* * *

She wept, for a while. Yet the tears dried, and where some might’ve followed their tears with anger or frustration, Molly grew quiet and still. For the remainder of the day, she confined herself to the walls of her bedchamber, her thoughts her only company. Her father did not seek her out, and nor did he send up any servant to inquire after her. She longed for someone to speak to. Anthea, her second eldest sister, would have no doubt provided her with a dry, witty remark. Mary, the eldest and ever the mother hen to her three sisters, would only hug her until the tears had dried, and perhaps for a little longer after that. Janine would have attempted to cheer her with a joke or two. The one thing they would’ve done however, was  _listen_. They were all gone though, married and happily looking after their own households, comforting their own children. 

Molly felt the loss keenly.

She had known marriage was her most likely path, ever since she was a child. She and her sisters had dreamed of the men they would marry, and it was not as if Molly had not tried, over the years, to attract and secure a man she could’ve been happy with. She had smiled and flirted and been kind to every eligible bachelor she had met with, but she was either too plain for their tastes, or how her dowry was decided to be much too small, or her conversation too complicated for a proper lady of society (Janine and the rest of Molly’s sisters had firmly agreed that she would never have been happy with a man who claimed a woman’s conversation “too complicated”).

She could only imagine what her sisters would say to her when she arrived at their estates and revealed herself as the new Mrs Molly Sullivan. Mary would offer congratulations, waiting until they were alone to ask how on Earth their father could’ve allowed such a match to take place, and would forever find ways to keep Molly and her husband separated. Anthea’s eyebrows would shoot upwards far too quickly to be called a look of surprise. Janine too, well, she would barely hide her shock at the marriage.

And the marriage itself! She shuddered to think of it. Her quality of life, the aesthetic of it, would obviously be good. Lord Sullivan’s estates earned upwards of 4,000 pounds a year, all of which would turn over to his son when he died. But Henry Sullivan! 10,000 pounds a year, let alone 4,000, could not make that man any more appealing to her. His social manners were appalling, his fixation on hunting formed most conversations, and he found great humour in the misfortune of others—and she was expected to live out the rest of her life with him. Of course, she knew of ‘convenient marriages’, where neither party interfered with the other and both parties did whatever they liked, with the only condition being that their activities did not break the rules of society or allow for gossip to spread. Just remembering the personality of her soon-to-be husband caused Molly to scotch that idea. Nothing about the eldest son of the Sullivan family was ‘convenient’. So it was doubtful he’d be able to fulfill the vows of such a marriage.

Duty dictated she bow to her father’s desperate actions, and let herself be entrapped into an incredibly bad match that would end in her deep unhappiness. Her heart and her head dictated something entirely different. It dictated the idea of rebellion; of running away. The question was whether she should obey them.

* * *

"Mr Fitzwilliam! Oh, Mr Fitzwilliam!" The call of his name made the man in question jerk awake. The dark of his rooms were soon bathed in the light of his candle and he rose to his feet, opening the door. Footsteps reverberated against the tall winding staircase and a young servant girl, flushed with panic and a letter in her hands, descended it, still calling his name.

"Hush! Do you want to wake the whole household? What is it?" he asked quickly.

"Miss Hooper sir," the servant girl answered, breathless. She held out the letter. "Her room - I went - into - found this - she was…"

The looped handwriting, hurried splashes of ink scattered over the paper, was only a few lines long, but it was enough to send Fitzwilliam back into his room, where he quickly dressed and sprinted up the staircase to the room of his master, throwing open the door. His master woke blearily and wondered whatever the matter could be for him to be woken at such an hour, but he soon sobered when met with the contents of the letter.

"Get everyone who is able to ride searching," he commanded, climbing out of bed. "Have my horse readied. Stupid, stupid girl!"

* * *

The boots were too big for her. The coat too, drowned her tiny frame and was heavy in its material. The shirt scratched against her skin, and more than once, she wondered how men went about comfortably in trousers such as these. Still, any discomfort she felt currently was paradise compared to the misery she would feel if she allowed herself to return. Holding her bag tighter against her shoulder, she continued on.

* * *

Eventually, she reached the edge of town, and the soft orange light of the inn fell over her. The inn was not exactly a place where a young lady sought shelter, but, as she reasoned to herself, it was only for one night. It would be dawn by the time she left, so there was no reason she should’ve felt any fear.

Yet, on entering the inn, all the fear she had merrily brushed aside came rushing back, and she was, all at once, made quite aware of how naive she was of the real world, and how separated the lives of the high society were from it. Keeping her head lowered, but her eyes constantly moving, she moved through the crowd, which was more lively than she’d ever seen one be. Shouting across the room seemed to be the major form of communication, bawdy jokes the entertainment and raucous laughter filled whatever silence might’ve remained. Finding a quiet corner in the back corner of the inn, she sat and remained sitting, rather unsure of what to do. Writing the letter, stealing her father’s clothes from under his sleeping nose and stealing away from the house had all seemed so exciting, at first. Now she had given herself time to pause, she was utterly stuck for what to do next.

There could’ve been someone at the bar she could’ve talked to, but it was difficult with the amount of people surrounded around it, drinks in hand and their laughs frighteningly lecherous. She felt small there, unimportant and invisible to all.

To all, except one. She swallowed thickly, frozen as she stared. The figure, who she had first spotted across the room unabashedly staring at her with their head titled to the side, as if curious by the mere look of her, approached. When they slid onto the chair opposite her, she opened her mouth to speak (either to greet him or to scold him, it all really depended on what came out). He swiftly cut her off with one single, blunt statement:

"Take off your waistcoat."

"I’m—" she lowered her voice, "I’m not rich."

"You look terrified, and you’re wearing clothes that afford more than what most normal men make in a year. I’m surprised no-one’s robbed you as of yet." The man smirked. "Now take off your waistcoat."

She bristled, but obeyed. 

"And who are you to be giving me advice?" she asked, shrugging her coat back on. He shrugged.

"No-one important. Just the person who’s saved your life." Before she could ask what exactly he meant by such a grandiose statement, the man scooped up her abandoned waistcoat and stood. She shot to her feet, grabbing at the material wedged under his arm. He whirled back around to face her.

"Let go."

"No. That’s—" She tugged at the waistcoat (he did have really rather nice eyes, but that was beside the point). "That’s  _mine._ ”

His hand settled against her arm, and leaned closer towards her. His voice was low. “There are people in this inn who would steal much more from you than your waistcoat. Believe me, I’m doing you a favour. Now, sit down and be quiet. There’s a good fellow.”

Completely against every impulse she had, she sat with a huff, and glared at the man, who only tipped his hat and bowed his head before he moved out. The inn door swung out behind him.

It was less than a minute before Molly was grabbing her bag and running out of the inn.

* * *

She had to jump up to hit him on the back of his head, but it was worth it, even if it barely affected him. He turned, amusement in his expression. She flushed, angry.

"Give it back."

He shrugged. “Why?”

"Because," she folded her arms over her chest, "I need it."

"Do you?" he asked dryly. Briefly, his gaze flitted over her. His mouth lightened with a smile. "Aha." 

She dropped her arms back to her side, and he chuckled. 

"Let me guess: runaway?"

"More or less."

"Unhappy marriage?"

"Potential of."

"Scared?"

"Unwilling."

He scanned her again, obviously eyeing her disguise. His verdict came in the form of a single, scathing scoff. Holding the waistcoat out to her, he began moving on down the road.

"Wait!" she called, burrowing the waistcoat into her bag before she jogged up to him. "Please -  _wait!_ ”

"For what? Some pathetic, pleading explanation about how horrible your mother is and forcing you into a marriage with a man you can’t stand?" He smirked and adjusted his jacket, eyeing her. "Well, I think I’ve saved you the trouble. You’re welcome."

He started to move off once more, but was instantly pulled back by Molly grabbing at his arm.

"Actually,  _no_ ,” she snapped, tugging at his arm and pulling him back to face her. “You clearly know my secret - I need your assurance that you’re not going to tell anyone.”

"I don’t need to," he replied, sniffing slightly. "Your costume is enough of a clue. A blind man could figure out your true identity."

Molly kept a tight hold upon his arm. “How do you suggest I - improve it?”

"Better fitting clothes," he answered. "Fugitives and runaways often make the mistake of buying or obtaining clothes too big for them. People notice when someone’s clothes are ill-fitting. They don’t remember anyone with well-fitting clothes. Unless said clothes are  _very_  luxurious.”

Molly decided to ignore that slight to her own disguise, and peered at him a little, her eyes narrowing. “You know a lot about fugitives.”

"Obviously I have more experience than you," he said coolly and, wrenching his arm from her grip, he continued to walk down the dark road. A man with experience, with knowledge? She wasn’t so naive to think, to believe, that she would complete her journey without help, or a guide. She couldn’t ask her sisters. They all loved their father too much to not report her presence at their estates. Though, perhaps if they knew of the intended match between her and Henry Sullivan, then she could—she shook her head. No, no. Her troubles were her own responsibility. She could not heap them upon her sisters.

"I can pay you."

He paused and turned, a frown on his features. “For what?”

"I need to get to London," she explained. "I intend to study there."

"You’re a woman."

"I can disguise myself."

"Evidence suggests you can’t."

"With  _help_ , I can.” She stepped forward, reaching into her bag, her gaze flitting towards him. “Help me get to London, help me disguise myself and—”

"You’ll reward me?" he asked, an amused disbelief in his voice. Retrieving a purse of gold from her bag, she dropped it into his palm as her response. Turning the purse over in his fingers and feeling the weight of it, all disbelief gradually faded.

"Might I ask your name?" she said, hitching her bag onto her shoulder and smiling. He tucked the purse into his pocket.

"Sherlock Holmes. Now, let’s get back to the inn."

She blinked. “B-back?”

He nodded, pressing his hand against her back (her heart fluttered a little at the sensation, but she tampered it down; now was not the time for that kind of thing, and especially not with degenerates who associated with criminals, however blue their eyes were). He steered her down the road.

"The son of the inn’s owner owes me a favour. You’re about his size," he grinned down at her. Funny how polite people got when money was introduced to the situation. "I’m sure he’ll be charitable enough to lend you some of his clothes."

"Oh. That’s - good. One thing though."

"What’s that?"

"It’s not my mother who’s forcing me into this marriage. It’s my father."

He quietly swore under his breath. She looked up at him.

"Something wrong?"

"No, not at all. Just - there’s always," his eyebrows knit together, staring at her, "something."


	145. Red Riding Hood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked for a Sherlolly Red Riding Hood AU and I sort of... disobeyed completely? Or, at least, went way off track.

The path was scattered with fading shades of orange, the surface of those same leaves muddied by the earth, the traditional symbol of the season’s decay. Above them, the trees were bare, the bark gnarled and scratched at the palm. The main path was damp underfoot, the scent of recent rain still clinging to the air.

He drew back the hood of his cloak and peered through the dense undergrowth. Little could be seen however, save the single winding path he had traversed on many an occasion, a quick shortcut through the woods to the village that only imbeciles thought haunted. 

Above him, thunder rolled in the sky, and the wind brushed, almost lazily, through his tangled curls. Sighing, he ruffled at his curls slightly and pulled his hood back up over his head and turned away.

Dusk soon fell upon his journey, but where others might’ve cursed under their breath, grabbed at their loads a little tighter and hurried on, breathlessly, until the village came into their sights, he hung back. Something, he could see it, was stirring. He came to a stop, tilting his head. Nothing. 

He narrowed his eyes, his mouth lilting with a smile, and he stepped forward, moving away from the main path. Cracks of twigs, rustle of branches, bird song; it all had him twisting his head, looking, searching. Heading further into the forest, shadows crossing over his features, he paused. His gaze zeroed in on a smaller path, barely visible between the trees. Footprints, small in size, leading up the path. Up, up, towards—

He reached out and touched at fabric. A protesting yelp echoed against the trees, and he chuckled, eyes dancing as he pressed a finger to his lips.

"My father always claimed there were wolves in the woods," he mused lightly, after a moment. The woman in his arms pouted. Her usually brilliant red cloak was muted here, and her brown eyes appeared almost black.

"You found me." She had the gall to almost sound upset by the fact. He grinned and settled his hands at her waist, gently pushing her back.

"You hardly made it difficult, love."

Her back hit against the tree trunk, and she continued to glare at him, even though her smile could not be stopped. “One might claim you to be the wolf,” she said. “You’ve got the countenance for it.”

"Hm." He touched at her chin, tilting her head upwards. He leaned forwards, inching closer and closer towards her. His mouth brushed gently against hers, and their smiles widened. "I’ll take that as a compliment," he murmured.


	146. Covert Activities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt of: "Hey! I asked someone else for this prompt but they didn't do it so... could you please do Sherlock skinny dipping and Molly shouting at him because he could get caught but then she joins him and they start to play fight and you know... ;) then Mycroft walks down from the family estate and is scarred..."
> 
> I changed the prompt so there's no skinny dipping, but there's implication of drunken wedding sex, so maybe that makes up for it. I've no idea.

Mycroft Holmes had endured many sights as a result of Sherlock’s behaviour. He’d actually had to go back into the horrors of field work (he shuddered at the memory even now) because of his little brother. However, he doubted he would ever see something quite this, well,  _scarring._

From his position on the forest floor, Sherlock beamed up at his brother, eyes bright. His wife, sat atop of him, blushed scarlet.

* * *

Molly hiccuped a laugh, her skirts gathered in one hand, her other holding onto her husband as together, they stumbled through the undergrowth of the woods.

The wedding party had been lovely, all soft jazz and conversation, and Molly would’ve happily wiled all the hours of the evening there, but when her husband had sighed and rolled his head towards her, cocking an eyebrow with that special glint in his eye, she had been following him out of the back door of the venue without a moment’s thought.

"Sherlock," she hissed, "slow down! I’m in - my bloody - wedding dress!"

"Well, you shouldn’t have made it so," he waved a hand dismissively, almost tripping over a stray tree root, " _poofy._ ”

"It’s not poofy!" she retorted. "It’s lacy."

"Poofy or not," he said, words slurring entirely of their own accord, and he wrapped his arms around her waist, "I’d rather much have you out of it."

Molly giggled, pressing her hands against his chest and she reached up, pressing a brief, if slightly sloppy, kiss to his mouth. “That, Mr Holmes, is a  _terrible_  line.”

"And yet you married me," he declared, chuckling as she rolled her eyes, but Molly gave a sudden yelp as Sherlock, clearly bored of standing up, purposely collapsed onto the ground, taking his wife with him.

"Yes - yes I did," Molly giggled, and she cupped at the line of her husband’s jaw, tracing her well-polished nails lightly over his skin. His breath, warm, slowed, glazing over his new wife’s form. Skin, flushed. Hair, perfect at the beginning of the day, now loosened from its bun. Her smile, oh so inviting.

He took her kiss without question, his arms instinctively wrapping around her waist, pulling her closer. Molly smiled against his mouth, and she shifted, her fingers playing idly with the buttons of his shirt before she slowly drew her hand downwards over his torso.

Sherlock grinned. “Awfully naughty,” he drawled.

"Hush," Molly muttered, bending her head and kissing at his neck. "We’re newlyweds." It was one way to ruin a wedding dress anyway.

* * *

” _So_  - can we forget this ever happened?” Molly asked quietly, which Sherlock soon snorted at, clearly still somewhat affected by the amount of alcohol he had imbibed over the course of the evening. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"You can be sure of it, Mrs Holmes."

With that, he slowly made his way down the path.

"I take it sex is - off the table?" Sherlock asked slowly. Molly sighed and patted gently at his chest.

"I know your brother’s the British Government, Sherlock, but he does have a knack for ruining a mood."


	147. A Simple Thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked for a story about Sherlock and Molly's first dance at their wedding. Title taken from [Nat King Cole's version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h5EUcYw96us) of "Fly Me to the Moon", which is the song I imagine to be playing.

Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper, both separately and together, have always trodden down unusual paths. They’re “unconventional peas in a pod,” as Mary might say.

So it can’t be much of a surprise that their first dance isn’t actually in front of their friends and family, and all filmed by some distant cousin to later be uploaded onto YouTube so others can fawn and swoon and critique their dancing. (Critique is something that comes hand-in-hand with the internet, Sherlock had learned over the years.)

Indeed, their first dance is in the small entrance hall to the building where they are to have their reception. Music, gentle swing music complete with sweeping romantic violin and the tinkling of piano, trickles in muffled sound bites out of the main ballroom. Happy conversation of the guests overlays it; and as they step over the threshold into the building, Sherlock winds his arm around his new wife’s waist and holds her hand.

She doesn’t need to ask what he’s doing, or why he’s doing it. She knew him, knows him, even. She knows everything about him. It’s a cliche, but she knows him better than he knows himself (Sherlock Holmes is never one to shy away from a cliche if there’s some grain of truth to it). The wonderful thing however, is not that. It’s that he knows her too. He knows every inch of her. 

She scrunches her nose when she finds something not to her taste. When she’s too cold or too hot, she curls her toes. She runs her fingers through her hair when she’s nervous or feels awkward. When she’s thinking, either over a crossword puzzle or an autopsy, she just slightly presses her fingers into her palm. He’s had so much time to learn and marvel over these little things, these tiny habits that she has. They don’t form her, though. Habits are not what makes a woman, and not a woman like Molly Hooper. (She’s to keep her name, she’s decided. He’s happy with that. It’s not, after all, the name that shows her devotion. It’s the fact she lives with him, has lived with him, and is still willing to live with him, even after everything they’ve been through.)

What makes her is something he can’t actually describe. The best word he can find for it is, ironically, the worst: her personality. The worst because it isn’t enough. She is so much more than a personality wrapped inside flesh and bone. She is strong. She is everlasting. She is stretching, dancing through time, never to be forgotten or lost, and it’s a privilege to stand here with her, for a few of those billions and billions of moments that wander across the universe. 

A few years ago, he would have scoffed at such sentimental stuff. The Mycroft in his head, even now, rolls his eyes (’caring is a disadvantage’ _,_ bollocks to that). But it is his wedding day. He can indulge in sentiment. She won’t judge him for it.

So there they stay, swaying and turning. On one particularly harmonious swell of the music, he twirls her. He calls it a mini-rehearsal for the real thing. She laughs.

“Funny. I thought this was the real thing,” she muses lightly, teasing him. He still remembers the first time she teased him. He was flabbergasted for about a week.

“Mm.” He hugs her close, her back pressed against his chest. He wants to say something else, but he can’t. So he bends and nuzzles a little at the hollow of her cheek, pressing a kiss to her warm skin. She smiles, leaning into his touch as her gaze falls on the door to the ballroom.

“I suppose we’d better go in.” Smiling, she steps to his side and takes his hand. They walk the short narrow path of the corridor and push open the doors.

“Please welcome the bride and groom!”

A cheer goes up, the music switches to a gentle pop song, and Sherlock escorts his wife towards the dance floor.


	148. We'll Always Be Scientists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt of "Yay, you're taking prompts! How about some Sherlolly please? One where Sherlock and Molly encounter each other as children during the summer holidays and years later they meet again but don't remember that they've met before until Sherlock brings home Molly to meet his parents and they show her some family albums and lo and behold she sees a photo of herself and Sherlock as children."

“They’re so sweet,” his mother says, bag of chips in hand and a smile in her eyes. She looks to her friend, offering out a chip. “Aren’t they?”

Sherlock frowns and opens his mouth to protest about such an accusation, but Molly Hooper gets there first.

“Excuse me!” she cries, straightening up, with her hands on her hips, “we’re not sweet! We’re scientists!”

Molly Hooper’s mother, sat beside his mother, blinks once and gives a serious nod though the corners of her mouth twitches with a laugh (his mother can barely hide her giggles).

“It’s true,” Molly insists, settling back down opposite her friend. Sherlock carries on digging their hole in the sand.

“Don’t worry,” he says firmly. “We’ll always be scientists.”

* * *

 

“Oh God, Mother.” He tips his head back, running his hands over his face as his mother opens The Cupboard with a happy hum.

“Molly’s part of the family now Sherlock,” his mother says, eyeing him. She places the godforsaken item, battered and worn as it is, into Molly’s lap. “It’s only fair she gets to look at the photos.”

Molly, highly amused, swills the wine in her glass a little and takes a sip. She removes the lid to the shoe box, and Sherlock groans heavily. There it is, the infernal creature. All messy hair, entirely 80s clothing and a stupid gurning grin on its face. Childhood him is a truly horrifying sight.  _Especially_  that grin.

“Aw! I didn’t know you had braces!”

“Much to my misfortune. And it’s not ‘aw’, it’s horrible,” Sherlock mutters, but Molly swiftly nudges him as she continues rummaging through the photos.

“I always keep meaning to put these photos into proper albums,” his mother says casually, and Molly nods. She’s remarkably good at that whole listening thing. (Thank God she doesn’t try and make him be sociable. He’s willing to try and improve in as many fields as possible, but polite society isn’t one of them.) “But I’ve never quite found the time, sadly. Molly dear, is something the matter?”

“No, nothing.” There’s a softness to her voice, a thoughtful, musing tone. She flips the photo in her hands towards his mother. “When was this taken?”

His mother frown. “Oh, must be — 80s? I think at Lowestoft. Yes, Lowestoft. We traveled down there for the week, during the summer, when Sherlock was off school.”

“Oh. It’s just — um — I think that’s me!” She looks to him, eyes bright and presses the photograph, faded and worn as it is, into his palm. He narrows his eyes. It can’t be her. He never forgets a face, he never does—and he’d remember  _her_. After all, it’s been a struggle to forget her ever since they first met in St. Bart’s morgue (a struggle he’s thankfully lost). Surely he would remember spending his summers with the woman he’s in love with and—in about six months to a year, that’s the standard for most relationships, but it all depends on if he can wait that long—plans to propose to. 

Yet the photograph is in his hand, and proudly shows him (painfully colourful swimming trunks and all) with his arm around a smaller, yet still just as bright, Molly Hooper. She grins at the photographer, a cheesy wide grin on her face, eyes shining. He can’t be more than 8 (9, 10? Somewhere around that age range anyway) in the photo, but his 8 year old self is utterly unaware of the photographer. He’s hardly aware of anything at all, gazing as he is at Molly Hooper. The silliest expression of total, complete fondness is on his features. He’s entranced, the poor fool. Entranced by little Molly Hooper.

“Funny how we’ve hardly changed,” he says eventually. His mother asks him to explain, but Molly’s hidden smile tells him that she knows exactly what he means.

(He proposes that night.)


	149. He Was Here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> efullgent asked for a story that included the phrase "I don't love him, but he was here and you weren't". I went for a twist on the infamously painful (damn you Gatiss!) hallway scene in TEH for this one.

“After all,” he does that chin tucking thing he does when he’s nervous and lets his hands fall to his sides, “not all the men you fall for have to be turn out to be sociopaths.”

He makes to leave.

“He was here.” He doesn’t hear her words at first. Not surprising. Still, he pauses.

He turns his head, inclines it, the middle bit between his eyebrows lightly creased, the mumbled question of _what_  on the edge of his tongue. He turns back, steps towards her. She smiles, and as is her way in recent weeks, her fingers move towards the ring on her finger. She twists it. Her gaze focuses on the floor.

“A phrase.” She doesn’t know where she first encountered it. Twitter? Facebook? Some romantic novel? One of the three. “Forget it.”

“Oh.” Not one of his typical  _oh_ s. Not a simple brush-off, designed to cut off a subject or person(s) as quickly as possible. She lets out a breath. That somehow steadies her. Still can’t speak though. It’s not that she’s nervous, or afraid. Well, she is afraid, but it’s not the usual afraid. It’s akin to standing close to the edge of a cliff. 

She did that, once. On a summer holiday in Dover. They went to the white cliffs, saw the expanse of the landscape. Tasted the sea air, felt it shoot straight down into her lungs. She was tiny, nothing but a kid. So it was more bravery than foolishness which had her become so curious. While her parents were looking the other way, she shuffled closer and closer to the edge. She wondered what it would be like to sit right on the edge of that magnificent white cliff face. That thread was snatched away as she got closer and the wind picked up and she heard her dad yell her name. She just began to turn her head when she felt her father snatch her up by her waist and carry her as far away from the edge as he could. That had been the end of her little adventure.

“What’s the phrase?” The question is unexpected, and makes her look up. She focuses on him, and immediately regrets it. His eyes are so sad. Her mouth quirks with the hope of a smile. He’s not even bothering to hide it. She straightens her shoulders.

 _I don’t love him._  “He was here.”  _And you weren’t._  “That’s all I can remember.”

She hopes beyond all hope this is one time he can’t see her.

He nods.

“Hm. Well.” (He knows it’s a lie. He knows, he  _knows_.) He steps forward, her heart lifts, she wishes it didn’t—not after three years—and he kisses her cheek.

“I hope you’ll be very happy, Molly Hooper.” He pauses. Swallows. His voice drops. “You deserve it.”

She lets him go.


	150. Sherlock's Great Secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt of: "Sherlock and Mycroft were very poor when they were younger and worked hard to get where they are now - even working on their accents. One day Sherlock accidentally slips into a cockney accent and Molly gets thrown off guard but can't help but like how it sounds coming out of Sherlock."

Molly had never seen Sherlock surprised before. She’d seen him figure things out, seen that specific glaze over his eyes and stiffness in his body that told her that the cogs were working, that he was not to be disturbed. (On those occasions, she usually worked around him and left him to it.) Not surprise. Not full, genuine surprise. Nor had she seen him ever be embarrassed. Awkward, yes, she’d seen that plenty of times, but not embarrassed.

The fact that he had made himself feel those two things at the same time made the situation all the more delightful. She was sure that John, if he were there, would’ve taken a picture. Lestrade too.

Sherlock stood where he was, frozen, with his hand clamped over his mouth, almost as if he wanted to take back the words that had come tumbling from his mouth.  _What an absolute fuckin’ disgrace._ Then silence and a blooming of red over Sherlock’s cheeks.

“You – heard that.”

“Mm.” She pushed her glasses up into her hair and leaned against the worktop, arms crossed. “Where are you actually from, Sherlock? I know you tell people London. But which part?”

The red in his cheeks faded to a light pink. 

“East End. Dagenham.” His confession came stiffly, murmured and tight and his accent sharp and crisp once more as he picked up and fiddled with an empty petri dish.

“John told me your parents come from Sussex.”

“Retirement cottage.” Sherlock let out of a breath of a sigh and placed the petri dish back on the worktop. “Mycroft bought it for them.”

“So you were poor?”

“If you want to call poverty ‘poor’, yes. Mother was a mathematician, but made little money from it. Father struggled to gain a job however much he tried.”

“But Mary told me, they’re – they sound—”

“You can have a posh accent and still struggle to pay for basic items,” Sherlock said irritably. Obviously, he’d had this conversation with other people. Many other people. Molly nodded.

“I can understand that,” she said quietly, and she gave a small smile. Sherlock sighed, his shoulders sinking forwards as he leaned against the worktop beside her.

“You’re not – going to tell John – or Lestrade – are you?”

She stared up at him. “Why would I?”

“Good.”

“You shouldn’t be ashamed of it though. Your accent.” He didn’t reply. She nudged him slightly in the ribs, widening her grin. The corners of his mouth flicked up with a smile. “It’s cute.”

His blush returned.

“Thank you.”


	151. Coffee Girls. (Molly Hooper/Irene Adler)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kendrapendragon on Tumblr asked for the following: "Mollrene: Molly and Irene have an innocent meet cute and Irene really likes her. She is shocked when John mentions her name at Sherlock's but tries to play it cool. Through them Irene finds Molly again, maybe visits her at Barts?"
> 
> I changed the prompt slightly, so this is shorter than one might imagine. More of a drabble, really.

“Latte, medium, skinny.” The words trip easily from her and the barista smiles, as he always does. It’s not Starbucks, it’s not all easy jazz and students with laptops, writing the next million dollar screenplay, and that’s exactly why Irene loves this place. It’s quiet, small. Very unlikely for her to bump into anyone.

So she’s half-surprised, half-mortified when she turns and promptly bumps against the woman behind her.

“Oop, sorry!” the woman chirps, dabbing at the unsightly coffee stain now stuck to her shirt. Irene frowns. Cheerful. That’s odd—and ever so slightly refreshing, actually.

“I’ll pay for that,” Irene blurts out, and the woman looks at her. She finds herself brushing her hair back a little bit. The woman grins.

“No need.” Her hair’s brown, eyes too, and her smile lights up her face. She takes a sip of her own coffee. “Name’s Molly, by the way.” Her gaze never leaves Irene. The thought that perhaps she should ask Molly for her number floats casually across Irene’s mind (well, actually it sort of screams out at her like some flashing neon sign) but before she can pick up that particular thread, her phone rings. She swallows a groan. Her mother. Of course. She always had a marvellous sense of timing. She answers. Yet when she hangs up, Molly’s already gone.

* * *

Irene supposes there’s some sort of irony that she’s smoking outside a hospital. There they are, researching how to save lives, and there she is, drastically cutting down her life expectancy. The doors swing open just as she takes another drag of her cigarette, and she promptly begins to cough. John Watson narrows his eyes in a frown.

“Irene.”

There’s surprise in his voice. Oh yes. She’s supposed to be dead, isn’t she? Or well, she  _was_  supposed to, a couple of years back. Surprising Sherlock never told his best friend of her actual fate. Still. Things do tend to slip the mind.

“Hello John,” she says, recovering. He shifts slightly.

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Am I? Oh dear.” (John Watson is a delightful person to tease. His reactions are wonderful.)

“Mycroft said—”

Irene eyes him and that’s all he needs. His fists clench, and he hisses out a breath.

“Bloody bugger… Anyway. You waiting for someone?”

“Mm-hm.” Just as she speaks, the doors swing back open. Rose, bag on shoulder and books wedged underneath her arm sprints, in a rush as always.

“Hey sis,” she says breathlessly. “Look, I’ve got to go to this party thing in about an hour, so could you—”

John looks even more surprised, which is a feat. “Drive you? Sure. My car’s just around the corner.”

“Rose!” Another woman, brown haired and brown eyed, jogs out of the hospital, carrying a phone Irene easily recognises to be her sister’s. “You forgot your—”

Now it’s Irene’s turn to be surprised. Molly stops, and smiles.

“Hello.”

Irene returns her smile. “Hi.”

It’s only after this greeting (and a bit of explaining to John, who never seems to have realised that two women in his life could’ve actually met), that Irene Adler finally gains Molly Hooper’s number and the promise of a date.


	152. The Disobedient Mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous on Tumblr asked: "Prompt: Sherlock and Mycroft call their mother "mummy", so why not call their father "papa"? Love to see Sherlock telling Molly all about it beloved "mummy and papa". :3"
> 
> Seeing as the following story was written by me at 4am after being woken at about quarter to 2 and unable to go back to sleep, I strayed from the prompt slightly and ended up with some rather silly fluff.

When Molly meets Sherlock’s mother, it’s in a flurry of perfume, eager questions about if she uses mathematics for her work (and if she does, what sort of formulas does she use exactly) and air kisses to both of Molly’s cheeks before she pulls up a chair and settles on the other side of the worktop. 

“So, you work with Sherlock? How’s my boy doing?”

Molly has to blink a few times. Nope. This still doesn’t make quite enough sense.

“He’s…  _fine._ ”

Fine in that she’s still confused as to why Sherlock is nowhere to be seen, especially considering the thing that she shouldn’t be thinking about but is anyway when really, she should be thinking about how the consulting detective’s mother is happily sat in the lab and chatting away, hands carefully positioned under her chin and her blue eyes bright with a firm curiosity.

“Fine? That’s marvellous.”

The lab door slams open and Sherlock storms inside, coat tails a-flapping as always. His gaze flits brief towards Molly before sliding back to focus on his mother, but it’s enough to make her decide that work is more interesting than any detectives. ( _”Molly — what would you do if I—?”_  No, no. No. Shouldn’t be thinking about that.) So she sifts through a pile of already filled paperwork and strains not to hear every word of the conversation going on opposite her.

“Mother, you’re not – supposed – to be here.”

“Nonsense! I was just chatting to Molly, dear, there’s no harm in that.”

“I’m not saying – I was just—” Molly knows the heavy sigh Sherlock gives right down to her bones. It’s one she often had to use around her own family during many long, long Christmases and Easters, however much she loves them.

“Look, sweetheart, Molly and I will be just fine here, you run along.”

“Yes but – God, don’t make me say it,” Sherlock mutters.

“Say what?” his mother asks, and Molly has to bite at her cheek at the challenge that’s oh so clear to hear in the older woman’s voice. Sherlock taps his fingers against the worktop. He huffs out a breath.

“ _Mummy._ ” The word is forced out through gritted teeth, and has Molly rapidly looking up. Sherlock stands before his mother, his hand in his hair and frustration obvious in the stiffness of his posture and the slightly frantic way he barely looks at his mother. She smiles and turns her head, stepping easily off the stool.

“Good afternoon, Molly,” she says cheerily, moving around the worktop to press another set of air kisses to Molly’s cheeks. “Lovely to meet you!”

And she’s gone, just like that. Sherlock clears his throat and sits down.

“That was your mum.”

“Yes.”

“Are we going to talk about—?”

“No.”

It had all been very playful, which was perhaps why it felt so awkward now. Well, it didn’t feel awkward at the  _time_ ; it had felt lovely in fact, with his hands all in her hair and on her waist, his mouth on hers and—no, she was getting distracted from the matter in hand. The matter being Sherlock’s seemingly dogged insistence of making every interaction between them as awkward as possible ever since that late night in the lab. 

Admittedly, for the first few days, she’d understood his stance. After all, a spontaneous session of kissing (which, if she was honest, could’ve turned into something much more if they both hadn’t had such a keen knowledge about hygiene in the workplace) didn’t come without its side-effects.

Two weeks however… Well, that was just bordering on silly and actually made her rather fed up with the whole thing. There was only so long she could spend being puzzled over Sherlock Holmes.

So she changes subject.

“You called her… ‘Mummy’.”

“She only seems to do what we tell her whenever we call her – that,” Sherlock admits, fiddling with his hands and looking everywhere but her like some kind of nervous schoolboy. It’s cute, in its way. “My father, annoyingly, has picked up the same habit.”

“Oh? So what do you have to call him?”

“Papa,” Sherlock mumbles. Molly swallows a laugh and nods.

“Why did she want to talk to me though?” she asks, tone thoughtful. “I mean, we’re just—” 

She pauses. The penny drops. Or, at least, she thinks it does. If possible, Sherlock appears to become even more sheepish when she raises an eyebrow and slowly says his name. Even if she could, she doesn’t fight back the smile that twitches at her lips.

If her instinct is to be believed, then what she has just experienced is Sherlock’s idea of ‘meet the parents’.

Or at least, parent.

Sherlock’s eyes finally lock with hers and though he seems the very height of decorum, she can see it. The reddened tips of his ears and the pinked edge of his cheeks. Mumbling a quick farewell of “afternoon”, he straightens up. The lab door quietly closes in his wake.

Molly leaves it only a few moments of hearing muffled conversation before she rushes towards the door and opens it by a crack.

“At least you got the chance to see Les Miserables again.”

Molly takes a risk at peeking around the door.

“Mm, I suppose.” His mother reaches forward and tucks up the collar of her son’s coat. “It was nice to see it without Mike’s commentary all the way through.”

“Oh – I thought Mycroft would’ve loved the talk of revolution. Pity.”

“You’re awful to your brother sometimes,” his mother tuts, brushing slightly at the lapels of her son’s coat, but she smiles anyway. The similarities between them are actually rather astonishing. “You do make an awful mess of this coat, Sherlock. I’ll have to buy you another. But if you ask me, this Molly girl – ask her. Before some other man snatches her up.”

“I don’t think Molly would allow anyone to  _snatch_  her—”

“Oh, you know what I mean. Now, I’ve—”

She’s heard more than enough. Silently shutting the lab door, Molly leans against it. In the quiet, she lets out a giggle, soft and light. When Sherlock, later on returns and falteringly says he has something to ask, she isn’t surprised. What she is instead is extremely pleased.


	153. A Husband By Any Other Name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> searloc asked: "Maybe it's because my tummy's rumbling, but a prompt nonetheless. Breakfast at the Holmes-Hooper house? Or Hooper-Holmes. Still up for debate."
> 
> I went for fluffy married!lock feels.

Eight years ago, Sherlock Holmes refused her offer of coffee and she decided that it was ‘just one of those things’. Nothing to write home or cry about. Maybe she had got a bit snuffly when she’d got back to her flat, but she hadn’t curled up with a bucket of ice cream. 

So now, when he’s the one serving her coffee, his curls tousled and eyes bright, she allows herself a giggle. There’s no need to explain the joke, he gets it, and his smile widens as he sits opposite her. 

His mother had insisted on their honeymoon taking place in a really gorgeous hotel in the Cotswolds, and Mary had practically ordered the two of them to whisk themselves off to some remote tropical island (John had nodded in agreement, and Lestrade, when consulted, had shrugged and said “Corfu’s nice at this time of year”). In the end, nowhere had seemed more appropriate than Baker Street. They’d shared the space for two years, so it wasn’t exactly special, but it was familiar, it was homely and it was theirs.

She puts the coffee to one side and her thumb traces at the shape of her wedding ring. Gold, with an inner inscription that, when she read it, almost made her cry but definitely made her smile. He takes a sip of his coffee.

“Second thoughts?”

She shakes her head as she takes a spoonful of the fruit salad in front of her. “Just that it’s – weird. Knowing  _we’re_  married.”

“Good weird?”

She laughs, and beams at him. That whole phrase could serve to sum up their relationship. “Of course.”

He tilts his head, taking another sip of his coffee before he sets it down and picks up a piece of toast, easily buttering it. “We should think about names.”

Her breasts aren’t tender, she hasn’t thrown up of late, and she hasn’t had any experience with mood swings, but she still ends up briefly looking down at her stomach. His chuckle makes her realise, and she feels her cheeks go pink as she looks back up at him.

“You meant surnames.”

“Mm. My brother holds the antiquated view you should take my name.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s antiquated,” she says, half-amused by the disdain in her husband’s voice. “People are just more aware of their options now. How would you feel if I did take your name?”

“Molly Holmes does have a certain ring to it,” he remarks idly, biting into his toast.

“And if I didn’t?”

“Then I can proudly proclaim myself married to Molly Hooper.” (There’s a light tone to his words, but they make her heart flutter nonetheless, probably just as he intended.) He brushes crumbs from his t-shirt, his eyes narrowing as his gaze shifts towards her. “How would you feel if I took your name?”

She wrinkles her nose. Sherlock Hooper? No. He laughs.

“Alright. Compromise – conjoined names?”

“Double barrelled?”

“If you like.”

“Hm.” She nods. “Sounds alright. But what order?”

“That’s another debate entirely. Though, I will admit—” he picks out a strawberry from her bowl, pops it into his mouth, and she replies with a swift sticking out of her tongue, “Hooper-Holmes has a nice rhythm to it.”

He gives her such a smouldering look that she shifts in her seat and saves that particular impulse for after breakfast and primly raises an eyebrow.

“So does Holmes-Hooper.”

“Hm – sounds too much like a law firm to me.”

“True. You just need to lop ‘and Son’ onto it, and it’s a car dealership,” she muses with a sigh, tapping her fingers against the table. “I have got one rule though. Whatever we decide.”

“You get to keep your surname for publications.”

She blinks. “How’d you guess that?”

“You’ve been published under the ‘Molly Hooper’ name before. Not a difficult deduction.”

“Calm down genius,” she teases, and he grins. “And I guess you’ll be wanting that rule too?”

He gives another nod. “But in other circles – I still vote for Hooper-Holmes.”

“I like it too,” she says, smiling as he rises to his feet and moves around the table towards her, his smile warm. She pushes her chair out, staring up at her approaching husband. He bends down.

“The Hooper-Holmes household it is then,” he murmurs and before she can say another word, he scoops her up, lifting her clean off her feet and she laughs, wrapping her arms around his neck. It’s with that motion, followed by a gentle kiss to her temple, that Sherlock Hooper-Holmes carries his wife towards their bedroom.


	154. Listening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "Molly killing someone out of self defence and to protect Sherlock, maybe Moran or something. He doesn't seem to take notice of her distress until much later."

Her hands are shaking, droplets of blood spattered against her front. The body lies in front of her, still and pale, and he sidesteps it, surging towards her. She’s okay, she’s okay, she’s  _okay_.

“He – oh God – he was—”

“Hush,” he murmurs, smoothing his palm against her hair. He peels off his gloves and reaches forward. His hands slides easily against her cheeks and he holds her there. Her breathing’s heavy. 

“He’s dead,” he says firmly.  He repeats his words. Over and over, he repeats them. He only stops when sirens wail and police flood the building and take her away from him and he wants to snap at them, tell them all to bugger off, he can handle this, he doesn’t ( _they_  don’t) need them.

When he does turn around, mouth closed and shoulders hunched, he finds Lestrade stood there. As always, he has his hands stuffed into his pockets. The usual gormless expression is absent, however. If anything, his eyes are steely.

“It was self defence,” he starts, but Lestrade shakes his head.

“I know that. Just go see her, Sherlock. It might do you good to actually listen to her. For once.”

Sherlock feels himself blink, once. Twice. Three times.

His legs move before his mind can really register what’s happening and all too quickly, he’s running, tripping over himself and stumbling, the yellow and green of the ambulance all he can see. She’s sitting on the steps to the ambulance, trembling, orange draped over her shoulders. Her looking up makes him stop, makes him breathe.

“He was going to kill you.” Her words come out in a whisper and he’s suddenly aware of everything about Molly Hooper, specialist registrar at St. Bart’s, but there’s nothing good. Watery eyes, shaking, small, pale, afraid, scared, distressed and he doesn’t feel like he can do anything about it. God. Still thinking about himself. How very selfish. Big Brother would be proud.

“Sherlock?”

Her tiny question, consisting only of his name, worms its way into his mind and makes him wake up, makes him pay attention. He steps forward, and sits down beside her. She shifts, pressing into him. Her hand reaches up, fingers curling into the lapels of his coat and he’s holding her, he’s holding Molly Hooper as tight as he can and for the first time in his life, he’s glad he listened to Greg Lestrade.


	155. Girl Code.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "The Holmes family go on holiday together in America and their eldest daughter gets unwanted attention- Sherlock and his son go over to "teach" them the manner of true English courting..."
> 
> I changed the prompt slightly, so it’s less an education of true English courting (because I promise is not as good as one might imagine, we do still get creeps who will follow you home and demand your number). As a result, the following drabble is more an introductory education on the ideals of girl code. Hence the title.

Poppy supposed she had been blessed, being raised in the family that she had been.

True, it wasn’t exactly the most conventional of families. Her father was a consulting detective, even when he had flecks of grey in his hair, and her mother cut up dead bodies for a living before her entrance into the life of a lecturer. Perhaps, if the boy in front of her knew of that fact, maybe he wouldn’t be so –  _eager_  and wouldn’t be quite so, well, annoying.

* * *

“Hm.” Sherlock glanced over at his wife, who was rather busy glaring directly ahead of her. Molly, who had up until that point, been deeply involved in the reading of an article on the merits of astrology (he’d recorded three scoffs and one offended mutter in the space of five minutes), cleared her throat. “I don’t think Poppy’s too happy with her company at the moment.”

“What?” he asked idly. Molly adjusted her position in her seat and held their baby tighter.

“Poppy,” was all her reply consisted of, and she pointed. Sherlock followed her gaze, and his features immediately darkened. Poppy, taking a step back from the boy stood in front of her, aimed a look at her father and briefly raised her eyebrows.

“Why’s Poppy staring at you?”

Sherlock glanced down at his son, who tilted his head and took another giant slurp of his drink.

“Perhaps because she wants me to go over there and help her get away from that boy – who’s probably going to get punched very soon if he doesn’t stop,” Sherlock muttered as he reached forward and carefully wiped at his son’s mouth.

“Why doesn’t she just tell that boy to go away?”

“It’s a thing your mother’s told me is called ‘girl code’.” Sherlock looked to Molly, who smiled. “Where women look after one another.”

“Girl code,” Peter echoed thoughtfully. He tapped his finger against his bottom lip (being three, Peter had become accustomed to mimicking the gestures made by his father) and frowned. “Sounds fun. Can I learn it?”

“Of course you can,” Sherlock said, easily lifting his son into his arms and standing. Quickly, he began to walk forward.

* * *

“So, where are you staying?” The boy grinned lopsidedly. Poppy stretched out what she hoped appeared to be a polite smile.

“I’m sorry—”

“Poppy, who’s this?” Poppy rapidly thanked her mother for educating her father in the ways of girl code, and turned to face her father—and little brother, who stared at the scene with wide, inquisitive eyes. Her smile relaxed as she folded her arms over her chest.

“Brogan,” she answered.

“Oh,” her father said, in a falsely jovial tone as he turned, looking at the Brogan in question, who lowered his head. “Lovely. Poppy, your mother’s wondering where you are.”

“She’s fine,” Brogan said quickly. Sherlock aimed a decidedly cool look at the boy, but Brogan, it seemed, was not to be deterred. Instead, he cleared his throat and stepped closer. When he spoke, his voice was quiet.

“Can I have your number, at least?”

Poppy’s lips thinned into an icy smile.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.” It was without another word that Poppy, with a flick of her hair over her shoulder, turned on her heels and walked away. Her father and brother, both with proud smiles on their faces, followed on.


	156. Friends Did Not.

This didn’t make sense. He pushed the gate to the house open, throwing away his cigarette. His footsteps scrunched against the gravel. The drive was longer, or felt longer, than he’d believed. It did not, could not, make sense. Molly Hooper was a friend, andhe’d had no trouble when she’d announced she was visiting her mother for the Easter weekend. After all, he was going to his parents (his mother had insisted, and after the fiasco of Christmas, he’d found himself with little wiggle room on the subject) and, on seeing her youngest son, his mother had smiled widely and drawn him into a hug.

“Happy Easter Sherlock! Mike’s already here, just through the living room – your father’s somewhere in the kitchen.”

He stepped through the doorway and walked through into the living room. Mycroft, stood by the fireplace and surrounded by pastel Easter egg decorations, nodded once towards his brother.

“Mummy’s pulled out all the stops.” He sipped at the whiskey in his glass, and smiled wryly. “But no punch, I see.”

“Mm.” Sherlock had said nothing more than that. Apparently however, that was all it took. 

“Did you know Molly Hooper’s mother only lives a few streets away?”

“No. I didn’t.”

“It’s a bit of a drive of course. Not really worth the effort,” Mycroft remarked, dryness in his tone. Sherlock frowned, tilting his head up.

“No.” He spoke the word slowly, which only served to bolster Mycroft’s already obvious amusement. The living room door swung open, and their father poked his head around the door.

“Lunch is ready, you two. Your mother’s waiting.”

The pair of them headed towards the kitchen. Sherlock could almost feel his brother’s smirk, but it was only until he was halfway through a portion of roasted lamb that he realised what the smirk  _meant_. That same realisation was what caused him to rapidly depart the kitchen and jump into his brother’s car.

“Well!” Miriam Holmes adjusted her necklace, bristling a little. “What was that all about, do you think?”

“No idea,” Mycroft said idly, which only caused his mother to raise both eyebrows. His father chewed on his own portion of lamb with a degree of thought.

“Doesn’t the mother of that Molly girl live quite near here?”

Mycroft popped a carrot into his mouth and chewed. “I wouldn’t know.”

* * *

Yes, entirely ridiculous. Made no sense at all. A friend, that was all she was. He’d made that clear, on his return. She was engaged, being engaged meant that she would be busy and well, it meant all sorts of different things. Well, it didn’t any more, Tom was gone, long gone. Mycroft was just being Mycroft; there was nothing to read in or between his smug words and his equally arrogant smirk. 

Molly Hooper, friend. That was how he had categorised her in his mind. Friends didn’t wonder about where the other was, how they were getting on, if they were okay, if they were happy,  _safe_. Friends met up occasionally, talked for a bit, did things, and went away again. Friends did not think, over and over again, about the little things, about brown hair and brown eyes and sweet smiles and kind words. Friends did not—

Oh. All too unexpectedly, Sherlock found that everything made complete sense. He paused. He blinked. Once, twice. His hand, curled into a fist, raised up and hovered against the door (worn, colour of faded green, needed new paint).  _Friends_  did not. Others, others with deeper, much more terrifying and much more thrilling connections though; they did.

Sherlock cleared his throat. He straightened his shoulders. With a gulp, he knocked.


	157. Near-Miss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anonymous user on Tumblr asked for a story where Molly almost dies from taking a bullet for Sherlock, and Sherlock tries to save her.

The hospital room was quiet, and Molly lay in the bed, eyes shut, hooked up to machinery and bandages swathed around her stomach. The door opened, and Mary jumped to her feet. Her husband scooped his arms around her waist, burying his face against her neck.

“She’s going to make it,” Mary said shakily, choking out a relieved laugh. She wiped at her eyes. “They’re going to keep her overnight, but she’s going to make it. God.” 

John chuckled softly and soothingly rubbed at his wife’s back. “So,” he said after a moment, “Sherlock here, is he? Wouldn’t be surprised if he was.” 

After all, Hell would have to literally freeze over before Sherlock Holmes left the side of Molly Hooper. Especially if Molly Hooper had been, a few hours before, inches away from death. Mary’s frown made his smile fall.

“What is it?”

“He’s not here John.”

John’s face darkened. “He’s not?”

“He was there when the ambulance arrived,” Mary explained, glancing over at Molly, “but when we came here and she got checked in – he disappeared.”

* * *

Almost like every single day, Sherlock was slumped in his chair with his hands tucked under his chin. He glanced up when he heard the door close. There was no attempt at a greeting. John stepped past the threshold of the flat, stuffing his hands into his pockets. 

“How long have you been sat there?”

“No idea,” Sherlock admitted, dropping his hands into his lap. John eyed the dried blood that covered his palms and the tips of his fingers, but he made no remark. 

John cleared his throat, his eyebrows raising upwards. “Thought you’d be at the hospital. You know, all things considered.”

“I did my part,” Sherlock said evenly. John bit back a cutting remark and drew back the urge to shout in his friend’s face. Apparently, his efforts were useless, for Sherlock only tilted his head. The slightest of smiles appeared on his lips.

“You’re angry.”

“You’re surprised?”

“No.”

John had to shake his head. Unbelievable.

“Molly – Molly Hooper – is lying in a hospital bed – and all you can say is ‘I did my part’?”

“I stemmed the bleeding. If it wasn’t for me, she would be dead.” Sherlock quickly rose to his feet. “Like I said, John – I did my part. I doubt I need to do anymore.”

The consulting detective left no more room for conversation. John couldn’t fight back his smile as he turned to look at his friend’s retreating back. It was only when Sherlock reached down towards the sofa to grab at his coat that John spoke.

“She’d want you there. When she wakes up.”

“If she wakes up,” Sherlock said, his hand hovering over the fabric of his coat.

“When,” John corrected. He folded his arms over his chest as Sherlock looked back at him, but he said nothing; save for a widening of his smile.

* * *

Mary never found that she was a heavy sleeper. In the past, she had always woken in fits and starts, had trained herself that way. It felt strange, odd, for her to sleep for no more than 30 minutes at a time. She’d prided herself on living off coffee and cigarettes. She only slept, truly slept, when she felt safe. (With John beside her, she often got hours of sleep.) Tonight though, had thrown her back into old habits. She’d drunk her way through uncountable cups of coffee and had managed a total of 50 minutes sleep.

Molly’s eyes fluttering open was the greatest reward possible.

A mumble of her name tripped out of Molly’s mouth, and Mary rose to her feet, smiling gently. She spoke softly, as softly as she could, but Molly did not seem contented. Her brow creased.

“Where’s – Sherlock?”

Mary opened her mouth to answer when the door opened. Mary looked up, and she had to cock an eyebrow. Always blessed with the most wonderful sense of timing.

“Blame John,” Sherlock bit out at her as he walked forward and sat at Molly Hooper’s side. Mary eyed his hands. They were clean.


	158. Waiting Room. (University AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> genandhisqueen asked for a story where Sherlock and Molly, as university students, meet for the first time in the A&E department in the middle of the night.

Molly sighed, and continued to pace. She was thinking when she shouldn't be thinking, and worrying when really, there was no need to worry. “Just a few stitches needed,” the doctor had remarked with a plain but genial smile (Meena had replied with a few perfunctory curses and a mumbled threat of throwing the ice pack at his head). 

A few stitches. A few stitches! Here she was, first time out as a university student, and she was now left with an explanation as to exactly why and how her best friend had ended up with a grazed knee and stitches. She sat with a sigh, sinking her hands into her hair.

“Could be worse.” Molly jumped at the sound of someone’s slow drawl. She looked up. A lean, lanky boy came to a stop before her. He sank into the chair beside her. His eyes were blue, hair black. Her eyes fell towards the sling around his arm.

“Broken wrist?”

“No,” he answered, “sprained. You’re visiting someone?”

“More looking after a drunk friend,” Molly said with a smile. She leaned back into her chair, eyeing his injury. “How’d you get yours?” 

“Just a minor mixture of chemicals.” He paused and gave a brief sigh. “Which created a – small explosion – and a noxious cloud of gas. And in the attempt to get away, I tripped and ended up with—”

He gestured towards the sling and she couldn’t help but giggle. He’d looked so bored by it all; as if a twisted wrist was a common occurrence.

“What do you study then? Something to do with chemistry, I expect.” He looked at her at that,  _properly_ looked at her. Not with the vague disinterest of before.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “I’m guessing something creative for you, going by the flecks of dried paint on your fingers.”

Molly glanced down at her hands. True to his word, there was purple paint buried beneath her fingernails. She sighed, letting her hands drop back into her lap.

“That was actually my friend.”

“The drunk one?”

“The one currently being given stitches, yes. I had a day off; thought I’d help her.” She hadn’t known in the morning that particular act of kindness would lead to a spontaneous night out with copious amounts of alcohol, and therefore lead onto talking to a student who (it seemed) had little to no regard for health and safety, but as her mother would’ve inevitably said –  _that’s fate for you_. Not that she believed in that sort of rubbish, but it was an entertaining idea nonetheless.

“So not creative?” the boy asked. Yet before she could answer, his face lit with a knowing smile. “Aha. Forensics, or pathology. Something to do with either, anyway.”

She gave him a teasing smile in return. “How’d you guess?”

“You’ve got scars on your fingers – tiny scars which could only come from wielding a scalpel.” The corners of his mouth cocked with a proud, charming grin.

“Found a new friend then, Sherlock?” Molly glanced up to find another young man (another student, most likely) bounding up to the two of them, far too chipper for a late night at the A&E department. Molly looked towards her companion.

“Sherlock? Nice name.” A bit old-fashioned, but a nice name nonetheless. She turned her head towards his friend. “And you are?”

“Victor Trevor.” He stuck out a hand, and gave a wink. “Nice to meet you.”

“Stop it,” Sherlock said irritably, rising to his feet. “Don’t tell me you’ve called my brother.”

“Nope,” Victor said cheerfully. “Called your mother though.”

“You’re determined to make my life difficult.” As Victor nodded in reply, Sherlock sighed, rolled his eyes and took a step back. Bending down, he took Molly’s hand. She raised an eyebrow and smiled as he, without any shame, hesitation or compunction, kissed the back of her hand.

“Good night, Molly Hooper.”

He let her hand drop, and Molly smiled wider as she watched the two walk down the hospital corridor. She didn’t know quite what was more entertaining; their relaxed, almost brotherly interactions, or the fading conversation they shared.

“Didn’t know you were such a charmer, Sherlock.”

“It seems to work for you.”

“I only use it on people I want to shag though. So what does that say about you?”

“Shut up.”


	159. The Benefits of Marriage. (Victorian!lock + Parent!lock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked for "Victorian Sherlolly with their children", and I got all the feelings.

Marriage was a decidedly formal undertaking, and love was a fortunate side effect. Those were the parameters in which Sherlock Holmes saw the two. Marriage was a contract. Nothing more than business, dealt between two people. Love was a different beast. It was, as mentioned, a side effect. It was a side effect that some hoped for, but never got or a side effect that dropped, quite inconveniently in most cases, into one’s lap.

For all his life, Sherlock Holmes had a magnificent way of avoiding such complicated situations. He, quite simply, did not fall in love.

That is, it  _was_  a magnificent way. It was magnificent right up until the day he realised he had done the unfathomable, and fallen in love with, of all people, Molly Hooper.

Meeting her, he had not known she would be the one who would cause this most unfortunate fall. She was quiet, plain and did not make too much noise, thank you very much. Such traits were pleasing to his brother, who had taken to employing her in the solving of various problems and puzzles that happened to come his way. More often than not, Sherlock found himself in the company of Miss Hooper and listening as she gave him her findings and her verdict. After a while, she seemed to grow comfortable with him at her side, and an entirely new, and worrying, side of her was revealed to him. She made jokes where previously she would’ve smiled privately to herself and teased him when she might’ve before merely nodded and bit a little at her cheek. Such behaviour made it rather more difficult for him to forget her after a day’s work; and when his brother inexplicably dropped Miss Hooper from his employ, Sherlock found it incredibly hard to forget her.

For the first few months, he helped himself ease the difficulty by making regular visits to Molly’s home. (Some people, like his brother and John Watson, decided to try and question his motives for attending Miss Hooper. He ignored their smug looks and raised eyebrows.) Her mother, a widow, chattered warmly with him and often made suggestions that they “take a walk in the garden”. It seemed like every day that he went there, she’d had a new set of plants replaced or put in or had a new feature installed that she claimed “just had to be seen in the sunlight”. Molly bore her mother’s fascinations with grace and aplomb, and often directed a quiet apology towards him when they were walking through the private paths of the garden. When it came towards autumn, the garden itself was a veritable paradise; the paths too, were practically engraved with their footsteps.

Winter however, cut off those walks. Instead, the snow relegated them to staying inside. Molly’s mother was quiet on those occasions, choosing to read or attend to her embroidery instead of making conversation. It was only polite that he filled the space her sudden silence had created, but luckily, Molly was a good conversationalist and their exchanges flowed easily and were frequently of a sustained length. On one occasion, Molly had paused in their discussion of the latest plant-based cures and looked around to discover that her mother had, very quietly, slipped out of the room and up to bed, leaving only a maid behind to explain the situation.

“We shall be going away soon.” He had been lost in thought, his hand tucked under the side of his jaw as he idly traced his gaze over Molly’s form. Sat by the firelight—for her young sister always insisted on there being a fire lit during the winter, even if she was never around long enough to feel its benefits—she’d been reading a large volume of plant life, her brow creased and her lips pressed together. Curiosity marked her features, her skin made golden by the firelight. The remark made by her mother had caused Sherlock to look up, and Molly’s mother smiled at him. Sat at his side, Molly closed her book and glanced downwards as he looked back to her. Her cheeks were pinked. “For Christmas. We are to visit my brother, in the country.”

“Well.” He had all the words in the world, and that was all he could think to respond with. How very intellectual.

They ended up staying at her brother’s until the spring and perhaps set the foundation for the most maddening stretch of time in the Holmes household since the day of Sherlock’s birth. Everything, every part about Christmas and New Year, went on far too long for the younger Holmes’ liking. Yet, when spring drew nearer and they received news that the Hooper household was making their return to London come Easter, nothing was ever quite long enough for Sherlock. In fact, he grew quite erratic. Indeed, he could often be found, silently contemplating something for hours on end in a sort of trance-like state until he quite suddenly broke out of it and declared himself “fine” when pressed.

Mycroft knew the source of his brother’s eccentricity quite well. He had seen it from the moment he had taken the young, promising female doctor into his employ. Discarding her, he had thought, would solve the problem. It seemed however, as the date of Easter quickly encroached on the household, that he’d been incorrect in that estimation.

He found his brother in his bedroom, preparing to pack for the long journey to London. When he saw Mycroft standing at his doorway, he raised an eyebrow.

“What do you want, Mycroft?”

“Nothing,” was Mycroft’s idle reply. “Nothing in particular. Just wondering if you were perhaps going to pay Miss Hooper a visit?”

“To welcome her back, yes. I know you’re unfamiliar with the concept Mycroft, but that is what friends do.”

Mycroft dismissed the insult with a sigh. “It really is a wonder you’ve managed all these years being so ignorant, Sherlock.”

Predictably, his younger brother bristled at such a comment and glared. “Ignorant? About what?”

He could’ve told his brother outright, of course he could, but there was no fun in that. So Mycroft smiled and turned to leave. He left his brother with only one remark: “Don’t play the fool.”

Sherlock had known, had figured it out from the very first moment he knew he would never be able to forget Molly Hooper. She was not plain, she was not quiet. She was intelligent, she was kind, she was warm, and she was beautiful. He had known he could love and did love Molly Hooper, but it was only now that he could allow himself to believe such a fact. Perhaps he could not pinpoint the exact moment when he had begun to believe it—maybe it was in winter, maybe it had been in summer—but that did not matter. What mattered was that he did not waste any more time in telling her.

Molly’s mother greeted him with the same warmth she always did on his arrivals to her home, and led him straight to the parlour, where the French doors to the garden were already opened wide. Molly sat on the porch, the breeze catching at loose strands of her hair as she gazed out at the gardens, a white parasol rested against her shoulder. On the call of her name from her mother, she turned her head and rose to her feet, bowing her head towards him. She took his arm gladly, as she had done so many times before and together, they walked down the well-trodden path. They had begun to round the corner towards a wooden archway, and had begun to walk through it, past the boundary and into the main garden when Sherlock cleared his throat and opened his mouth.

“I always told myself Molly, that our walks – and our conversations – were ones of friendship. But, um, over time, I’ve come to, well, see that they – weren’t.”

“I know.” He swallowed, looking to her. Like his own, her smile grew wider, and she wound her arm tighter around his, her eyes brightening. “I’ve known for – quite a while now.”

“Hm.” He let out a laugh. Of course she had. He shouldn’t have expected less from her. “How did you know?”

“Oh, I believe it was… when I caught you looking at me during winter. Or maybe before…” Her lightness of tone and glance towards him informed him that she was teasing him, again. He chuckled and brought them to a stop. She continued to smile up at him.

“And what made you realise? That we were – are – more than friends?”

“No idea,” he replied easily.

“I’m offended,” she teased as she reached up and wrapped her fingers around the lapels of his coat. His eyebrow lilted upwards.

“And if I ask you to be my wife?”

She gave no answer, save to reach up towards him, and he felt her smile as he kissed her.

The wedding came soon afterwards.

* * *

It was unsurprising, really, for a couple who had experienced such an odd form of courtship (Molly became fond of terming it an “accidental courtship”) that they would raise their children in an unconventional manner too. They did not, to the confusion of some, hire a wet nurse or a nanny or a governess, but instead took it upon themselves to raise their children under their own power. Even when their brood grew to the size of five, they did not cave to expectations but instead merely moved to bigger accommodation.

“Mother!” Rosa called. The distinct wheedling whine which had become her trademark was in her voice. Sherlock, standing by the door, chuckled at the sound. “This dress is too frilly, I can’t wear it!”

Molly’s soothing reply of her third child’s name came through the closed door. “It’s only for a few hours. You won’t be forced to wear it forever.”

“Why can’t I just wear my usual clothes?” Seven years old and ever the tomboy, Rosa always felt far more comfortable in a practical cotton dress, rather than the silken dresses that so dictated female fashion. Allowed for more running, she claimed.

“Because—”

“And don’t say it’s because I need to look pretty.”

“I was actually going to say it was because your grandmother would be pleased to see you in a dress.”

“Oh. I guess I shall tolerate it then.” (Rosa never really could say no to her grandmother.) “But how come Emily’s dress isn’t so frilly?”

“Because Emily’s only a baby,” Molly replied, looking round as Sherlock finally opened the dressing room door. Rosa immediately ran forward and jumped into her father’s arms. He picked her up with ease, settling her against his waist. Molly smiled and slowly stood. Emily, in a white lace garment, slept peacefully in her cot.

“Where’s Nathaniel?” Molly asked, though she already knew the answer.

“In the library. I told him he needed to be out at the front of the house with his brother, but he didn’t seem to pay attention.” Sherlock sighed lightly and stepped towards her, pressing a brief kiss to her mouth, his other hand cupping briefly at her rounded stomach. “We’ll pick him up on the way.”

“Sounds doable enough to me,” Molly said and she dropped a kiss on Rosa’s cheek, running a hand through her curls before she bent down to scoop Emily up into her arms and departed the room. Sherlock grinned and let Rosa back onto the ground, following on as she ran out of the room and down the corridor. The man of his youth, if he had known that he would end up like this, would’ve baulked and turned pale; but age had made him wise. It had made him realise that love was not a side effect of marriage. It was a construct all of its own making, and one path he was happy to take. However unconventional it might have been.


	160. Plonker. (Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked for me to do a sequel of sorts to my 'Sherlock has a Cockney accent' prompt fill (chapter 151), where Lestrade and John find out and react to the fact. As I wrote it, it accidentally turned into a fluffy Mycroft/Lestrade thing with background Sherlock/Molly.

_Absolute fuckin’ disgrace._ Those are the words that float through the lab door, and are the words that have the approaching John Watson and Greg Lestrade stop in their tracks. John’s eyebrows immediately disappear into his hairline, and Lestrade immediately regrets not charging up his phone at lunch. Beside Greg, John snickers.

“Sherlock? A cockney?”

Greg shrugs. “Hard to believe it.”

They peek, briefly, into the lab. Molly’s there as ever (Greg idly wonders, as he often does, when she’ll realise that it’s not the experiments nor the cases that draw Sherlock so often to St. Bart’s) and smiling up at him, listening and understanding. The tail-end of their conversation floats towards them. Absorbed as he is by Molly, the great consulting detective doesn’t notice their presence.

“You’re not – going to tell John – or Lestrade – are you?”

“Why would I?”

Greg gently closes the lab door, and looks to John who looks as if all his Christmases have come at once. He already has his phone in his hand.

“Sherlock’s gonna be surprised next time I see him, that’s for sure.” He laughs, dialling a number, and presses his phone to his ear. Nodding once towards Greg, John heads down the corridor; and when he says his wife’s name, Greg isn’t at all surprised.

* * *

He arrives at his flat with about two minutes to spare, but as usual, he’s already there and preoccupied with making himself lord of the manor, sitting at the kitchen table with a newspaper and a coffee. Greg greets his boyfriend by pressing a hand on his shoulder and kissing the top of his head. (Mycroft is beginning to go bald, but he’ll never admit it. At least not for another few years.)

“Prevent any world wars lately?” Greg asks cheerfully, and it’s that tone which has Mycroft turning his head and raising an eyebrow.

“Either you’ve solved a case or my dear little brother has been less annoying than usual today,” he says idly, turning a page of the newspaper.

“Neither, actually – I did overhear Sherlock talking to Molly though – in the lab,” Greg explains, standing and moving over to the fridge, opening it and grabbing a beer. The beer in question wasn’t there in the morning, but he can thank Mycroft for the gesture later. For now he’s got more pressing matters. Mycroft sighs, continues reading.

“Has he worked up the courage to actually do something about that girl or not? It’s getting rather tiring, seeing him behave like some kind of overgrown schoolboy too shy to talk to their crush.”

“And you’d never do that,” Greg retorts, a twinkle in his eye. “But I will admit – the way he keeps hesitating over her – well, it's an absolute fuckin’ disgrace.”

At those words and the way in which Greg says them, Mycroft freezes, shifts ever so slightly and raises his head by just an inch.

“Yes,” he says slowly, “it is rather.”

Greg chuckles and takes another sip of his beer. “I could never imagine you with a Cockney accent.”

“Good,” Mycroft remarks, rustling the newspaper slightly, “because you’re never to going to hear it.”

Greg swallows a grin as he finishes his beer and throws the empty can into the bin. Yet, as he turns around and focuses on the task of making supper for them both, he can’t help but hear one word come from behind him. A word spoken in an East End accent, from about the area of Dagenham.

“Plonker.”

At this, he can’t hold in his grin. He glances over his shoulder at Mycroft, and gives a quick wink.

“Love you too.”


	161. Confuse Me Before You Go Go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "omg okay this prompt might suck but i can't stop thinking about it so here it goes (it's kinda long and i totally understand if you don't want to do it! i just needed to share this) okay so molly and sherlock are divorced with a child (a toddler maybe) and he actually has a new girlfriend so one day he invites molly and their daughter to dinner at his new flat bc he hasn't actually seen her in a long time and something happens and he realizes he's totally not over molly bc she's a goddess."
> 
> I changed the prompt a bit and made the following story an Incredibly Silly Thing. Canon AU, parentlock, post-HLV.

The last time John encountered Janine Hawkins, she’d been strolling out of Sherlock Holmes’ hospital room and had only paused to flippantly tell him, with a smile, that the detective in question was awake.

Therefore, when John entered 221b and found Janine descending the stairs, the curls of her hair bouncing and a very content smile on her face, he paused. He blinked, too. Once, twice. Maybe three times.

“Janine?”

“Hi John,” the woman said, her softened Irish accent light and breezy. She was a little fuller than before, more bright-eyed. Almost… pleased with herself. John stared at her. Odd.

“Hi.”

Janine, picking up her coat from the hook, put it on and scooped her hair back into a ponytail. “Nice to see you,” she said, and she pointed. “Sherlock’s upstairs.”

With that, she was gone. John frowned, and shook his head. No. That had happened. He wasn’t hallucinating. (He hadn’t taken any of Sherlock’s offers of a cup of tea over the last few weeks after all, so no chance for poisoning or drugging, much to the detective’s annoyance.)

Sighing, John grabbed at the banister rail and advanced up the steps two at a time. He was just being ridiculous. It was nothing.

“Sherlock?” he called as he stepped through the door to an empty 221b.

“I’ll be a minute.” John turned at the sound of his friend’s voice. It had come from the bedroom. He swallowed and folded his arms over his chest, tucking his chin against his palm. At least he wouldn’t be forced to endure any awkward displays of affection from the detective. Though it was surprising, this  _turn_  of events, considering what he’d done to Janine in the first place–

The bedroom door opened, and John looked up. Sherlock, in his tartan dressing gown and a pair of pyjamas (still no case clearly), stepped out. John didn’t fail to notice the pains taken by Sherlock to quickly shut and lock his door.

“Morning,” Sherlock said, sweeping past John and into the living room to sit in his chair. John turned.

“Afternoon,” he corrected with a raise of his eyebrow. Sherlock, making a low hm noise at the back of his throat, glanced at his watch.

“Oh. Yes. Afternoon.” For a man who usually couldn’t bear the absence of a case for more than five minutes or so, Sherlock was rather calm. John stepped forward.

“I – uh – saw Janine – on my way up.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up.

“Janine?”

“Yeah.”

The consulting detective’s mouth moved into a smile. “Oh. Yes, she was here.”

“Mm.” John rubbed a little at the back of his head as he parked himself opposite Sherlock. “Didn’t think she’d be – well – back here after – what happened.”

“Well, she wanted a little more,” Sherlock remarked lightly. John buried his frown, and settled for a slight pursing of his lips and a single nod as he shifted forward in his seat.

“Right. Right. Sherlock, are you – is Janine—” Sherlock tilted his head, eyebrows lilting upwards. John cleared his throat. “Are you – do you…”

“Have any cases?”

John breathed in relief. The awkward moment could be saved for later. “Yes, that.”

* * *

Mary sank into the sofa, tucking her hand against her temple, and she smiled as she watched Ruby and Charlie, sat together as they were on the living room floor, attempt to construct what seemed to be the Lego version of the Taj Mahal.

“Sherlock’s got the weekend with him, hasn’t he?” Molly, hearing Mary’s question, nodded. She reached down, scratching idly at her knee.

“Mm. Charlie,” she called, and her son glanced up with a smile. Molly gently threw over an extra Lego piece towards him, which Charlie caught with grace. Mary’s smile widened.

“You’re not – concerned, are you?”

Molly turned her head, frowning. “By what?”

“Didn’t Sherlock tell you?” Mary asked, but on a shake of her head from Molly, she sighed and shrugged. “I’m not surprised. He didn’t tell John either.”

Molly straightened up. When she spoke again, her voice was lowered. “Tell John  _what_?”

“Oh, um… It’s Sherlock. Apparently, he’s – um—” Mary bit at her bottom lip, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Dating Janine again. For real, according to John.”

“Oh. Good.”

Mary’s brows creased. “Good?”

“Y-yeah. It’s fine. He wants to – it’s fine. Absolutely fine. We’re not together anymore – we – we can date, if that’s what we want – that’s his –  _our_  – right…” Molly let out a breath. Mary reached forward, touching at her friend’s shoulder. There was only one reason why the usually cool and unflappable Molly Hooper would start stuttering and stumbling. Surprise. Shock, even.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Molly said quickly, giving a smile. “No, I’m fine. Do you want a cup of tea?” 

* * *

Charlie ran up the stairs two at a time, and Molly jogged on behind him. She was, of course, completely alright. The initial announcement had been a bit of a shock, yes, but that was to be expected. After all, the way Sherlock had treated Janine before, it wasn’t really the sort of situation that would lead to either one of them saying that they should ‘give it another go’. Anyway, it wasn’t her business. She and Sherlock had been over long ago, even before John’s arrival. Okay, there’d been the night of his fall, but apart from that being what had brought their child into the world, it hadn’t  _meant_  anything. It had been a sort of – friends with benefits thing? Or at least, exes with benefits thing. It had been a surprise, yes, to discover that a baby had resulted from that union, and she’d tussled and debated it over and over again in her head (god, that had been a torture) until she made the final decision, but apart from Charlie, it had been nothing. Just two people coming together on one occasion. There wasn’t any reason to repeat the experience.

“Molly.”

She smiled when she reached the top of the stairs and saw Sherlock standing in the doorway to 221b.

“Charlie upstairs?” she asked, glancing around the empty flat.

“Already packing his things away,” Sherlock answered with a returning smile, and he stepped back into the flat, allowing her inside. No sooner had she entered than Charlie’s footsteps hurried down the stairs and he’d barreled straight towards his father, hugging him tightly. Molly saw the reason for the affection; in Charlie’s hand, he held a new small disposable camera. It was a habit of Sherlock’s. Whenever Charlie was to visit him, he’d stow away some tiny gift for Charlie to discover. He claimed it kept Charlie’s mind sharp. Molly half-believed it. It was difficult really, to think that the wide grin Charlie always gave when he found those gifts didn’t play some kind of a part. 

Chuckling, Sherlock took hold of Charlie and hauled him upwards to settle him against his hip. He wandered casually around the living room as an excited Charlie chattered, his replies to his son’s questions soft and calm and always with a smile. Molly smiled. When Charlie had been born, she hadn’t really wondered about what sort of father Sherlock would’ve made. At the back of her mind, she’d had some vague outline of someone superior, taking only a vague interest in his child’s progress. Then Sherlock had returned, and she’d soon realised that the reality was far different, far deeper and far more loving than any vague concept could’ve been. The fact that she’d so underestimated Sherlock Holmes still made her smile.

“Mum?” She was almost at the door when her son’s voice made her turn. “Dad wants to know if you’d like to stay for dinner.”

(The pinked cheeks that Sherlock, at that point, tried to hide by turning his head slightly away from her confirmed that Charlie hadn’t exactly put forward the invitation in the way his father had intended.)

Molly swallowed a smile. “I’m sure he does.”

* * *

Sat in the kitchen chair, with Charlie on her lap, Molly cuddled her son close. Yet her eyes stayed focused on Sherlock. He didn’t exactly see why. He’d invited her to dinner. To stay for dinner. Not exactly unusual, he often did, but this felt a little bit  _different_. Her voice was less casual than it had been previously, her movements tighter and more controlled. She was stepping back. Distancing herself.

Serving up the food, Sherlock set the plates down on the table and Charlie slipped from his mother’s lap and settled eagerly into his own chair, instantly digging into his meal. Molly approached her own meal with a greater degree of hesitancy.

“So—” she started, clearing her throat a little. Dry roof of mouth. Nerves, most likely. That did bring up the question of  _why_  she was so nervous, but he brushed that to one side. “What are your plans for the weekend? With Charlie? Aside from the zoo?”

“I think I might take him to the park,” Sherlock answered. His gaze flicked towards his son. “That good with you?”

Charlie, busy hoovering up his food, nodded.

“Good.” Molly ruffled at his hair, earning a distinct ‘look’ from her son as a result. “He needs the fresh air.”

Charlie swallowed his bite of food. “I get fresh air when I’m at school.”

“Then you need more. I’m your mother, I have to worry about you.” Molly glanced back at Sherlock. Her voice dropped to a murmur. “And if you want, you can – bring Janine along. I mean, Charlie’s old enough, he’ll understand—”

Sherlock paused. “Janine?” 

Molly’s eyebrows, knitting together. “Yes. Janine.”

“Why would I want to bring her?” Sherlock asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Oh. So you’re taking it slow.”

Taking it— 

Sherlock glowered. Of course John Watson would get the wrong end of the stick.

“Janine isn’t my girlfriend.”

“Oh.”

“She only visited me to – give me a present. Of sorts.”

Molly snorted out a laugh. “A – present? What kind of present?”

Sherlock’s face lightened with a smile. Pushing back his chair, he stood. “I’ll show you.”

* * *

Molly stared, and stared, at the item in Sherlock’s hands. It seemed innocuous enough – well, it didn’t  _really_ , as it was a speaker in the shape of a cartoon sunflower with a set of orange glowing digital numbers at its base.

“What is it?” she asked, craning her neck up towards Sherlock. His only reply was to reach around the back of the sunflower and press a button.

The first few bars of the song she did not recognise. The lyrics, however, she did recognise.

“ _Ag-a-doo-doo-doo, push pineapple, shake the tree… Aga-doo-doo-doo, push pineapple, grind coffee…_ ”

Sherlock sighed softly. “The settings are permanent. A bonus, apparently.”

Molly’s laughter burst into being and almost drowned out the screeching, tinny sounds of the song. Sherlock’s mouth widened into a grin, and soon, his laughter joined with hers.

Charlie, too young to have experienced the song, pouted.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, I think your father could explain Charlie.” Molly eyed Sherlock playfully. “It would require a demonstration though.”

Sherlock aimed a withering look at her, but her replying raise of her eyebrows gave him cause to sigh and put down the offending object and step back.

“The things I do,” he muttered but as the chorus kicked in, he duly fell into the steps, waving his hands in front of him and stepping once to the left, and again to the right. Charlie, understandably, fell into peals of giggles. Molly looked at him.

“Shall we put your dad out of his misery?”

Charlie nodded, and taking her hand, he stood and joined Sherlock. The song merrily continued and Sherlock Holmes found himself silently thinking that, if there was anyone who could look remotely dignified or indeed pretty while doing the dance moves to Agadoo, it was certainly not him. It was definitely however, Molly Hooper.


	162. The Most Delicate of Subjects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "Prompt: Mummy Holmes outs Sherlock and Molly's long relationship (as in they've been in a sorta on and off again relationship since their teens) the Scotland Yarders."

A thin line of coffee made its way down from the Detective Inspector’s bottom lip, dropped as it was in surprise, and gently soaked into the fabric of his shirt. Violet Holmes, hands folded in front of her, tutted and reached into her handbag to bring out a handy handkerchief. She reached forward, daubing at the mess.

“Just like Mike – always making a mess – but only when he was younger of course, he’s got better since then.”

“Yeah –  _um_  –” Greg’s eyebrows knitted together as Violet tucked the handkerchief back into her bag. “About that thing you mentioned –”

“Which thing?” she asked, such innocence in her voice, and such friendliness, that Greg almost cleared his throat and said ‘nothing’. That was until the knowledge that she had just imparted ran through his head, still not quite connecting, and he was asking his question before he could think to stop himself. 

Violet however, didn’t show any offence but nodded genially and said that it had been going on since they were teenagers – didn’t either of them tell you?

“Err, no –” Greg said weakly. “It must’ve slipped their minds a bit.”

“Oh! Well, now you know.” Violet smiled and turned as the doors opened and Sherlock walked inside. “Sherlock! Hello dear. Have you seen your brother at all today? I told him I was coming down.”

“Then he’ll be at the Diogenes,” Sherlock muttered disinterestedly. “Lestrade, I need to look at the cold case archive.”

Greg blinked. It  _couldn’t_  be. Sherlock Holmes wasn’t, well, he wasn’t that sort of person; hadn’t seemed that kind of person anyway.

With such a lack of response from the Detective Inspector, it wasn’t hard for the consulting detective to guess that something was wrong. Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. “What is it?”

“You and Molly? You’re a –  _thing_?”

Sherlock bristled, stiffened and straightened up. He eyed his mother.

“Good afternoon.” With that, he left.

“Were, dear.” Greg looked to Violet, who gave a small sad smile in return. “They were.”


	163. Kisses, and What They Mean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thenworld asked: "I have a tiny prompt I think you might (or might not?) like (it's super fluffy) (i just realized I'm typing as I talk, dear lord, we getting real here) so, prompt: after avoiding molly for a while because his feelings are now public knowledge (tragically), he arrives at Molly's apt and they do the Amelie kisses in the face thing. the end."
> 
> For anyone unfamiliar with the film Amelie, or 'Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amelie Poulain' to give it its full title, [this is the kisses thing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yEOSh2GF1x4).

She’d left the porridge in the microwave for two minutes too long, and that was the best part of her day. Her hand tucked underneath her jaw, she drew a circle around the edge of the bowl. Clumps of oats and milk clung uselessly to the surface of the spoon.

CONSULTING LOTHARIO  
 _It’s elementary, my dear Watson! Sherlock Holmes, consulting bachelor, taken at last? The detective was spotted yesterday morning near his home on Baker Street taking a romantic stroll with a female, who remains as yet unidentified. Their attentions focused only on each other, the two appeared to have a spring in their step. It seems that Sherlock Holmes has engaged himself in an entirely new game – the game of romance!_

Molly flipped over the paper and dug her fingers into her hair, scooping it back. Consulting lothario? The tabloids must have had a field day when the paparazzi had sent them their photographs. The previous night had been beautiful, something that before had been in her mind only, and she had woken with a smile on her face and his arms around her waist, hands just underneath her t-shirt, and his mouth dropping kisses on her neck. Nothing ‘big’ had happened (yet), they’d simply – spent the night together, talking and talking and well, talking some more until they’d fallen asleep on his bed. And that had been made sordid, nothing more than a flippant attempt at innuendo by the tabloids.

With a grunt, she pushed away the bowl of porridge (it was cold by now anyway) and stared at the wall to her kitchen. The wallpaper was kitsch, some pattern that had once been a trend in the 1970s. She’d never really bothered to replace it. It had been one of those things that she’d do some other day – perhaps in a week, or a month, or whenever she had a day off work. Until then, she was stuck, sitting in her chair as she stared and sighed at an embellished gold and white pattern.

Sherlock had been unusual in his behaviour that morning, and now she understood why. He’d been snippy, snapping at things and aiming the most cutting of remarks to the most abiding of interns and basically being exactly as he had been when she’d first met him all those years ago.

“What’s wrong?” Her question, directed at him after the second occasion of him swearing at a computer, made him glare and scoff but give no answer. She briefly arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. He was Sherlock, and he got into moods, everyone did, she couldn’t expect him to change overnight.

Of course, when she did discover the reason for his mood, she did find herself slipping into an altogether similar one. Tabloids were tabloids, they always hunted for a story, but she had never believed she’d  _be_  one of those stories.

A single knock against her door sounded, and Molly looked up. Her eyes widened. Her breath hitched, for one small moment. No, no, couldn’t be. It wasn’t. Sherlock Holmes wasn’t that sort of person. It was someone else, a neighbour or—

“Oh.” So he – was that sort of person. He stepped forward, pulled off his gloves and slipped them into his coat pocket. His hands covered her shoulders. His eyes were light, a knowing smile on his mouth.

A kiss can say a great number of things. It can be a gesture of good luck between friends or family or even foes (if the Godfather trilogy was to be believed). It can be a way to say goodbye; an afterthought. It can be a gift. It can be an epic love poem, or the shortest breath of a whisper of  _something_.

He kissed her cheek. She smiled. He kissed her jaw, his smile ghosting over her skin, his nose nuzzling against the hollow of her cheek and her toes curled, digging into the thin carpet that always made her feet itch in summer and freeze in the winter. (Spring and autumn, she was just a bit chilly.) He kissed her eyelids as they fluttered closed and her cheeks warmed. He opened his mouth to speak. His lips were warm, her finger pressed to the arch of his Cupid’s bow.

She reached up, her feet arching up onto the balls of her feet, and kissed his cheek. One word made up that kiss. Stepping down and back, she held the lapels of his coat and he followed, without words, as she stepped back and back again towards her bedroom. They were both still without words when they divested one another of their clothing, his coat sliding from his shoulders into a crumpled pile on the floor. Her jumper, cherry patterned and worn and frayed and the only thing she had that morning, fell apart under his hands. Together, they fell back onto the bed.

There was no need for words. They’d spoken them already. The time for them would come again, no doubt about that, but for now… words were nothing.


	164. The Concept of It.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked for: "'My mum and friend ships me with you' AU". I went with fluff, and conspiring parents.

Sherlock Holmes is part of a conspiracy. He doesn’t quite know how, nor does he know the exact nature of the conspiracy, but he knows it involves what he’s currently doing. Of course, it would be helpful if he actually knew what he was doing.

Somehow, it’s all to do with his mother. That much he does know.

* * *

“I never thought I’d see Mycroft married,” Miriam Holmes muses lightly, taking a sip of her wine, and her husband chuckles happily and lays his hand over hers, his thumb stroking against her wedding ring.

“You never thought you’d see yourself married, remember?”

She smiles, and kisses his cheek. Silly, sentimental old sausage. She does love him so.

“What’s that you’re saying?” Martha says from the opposite side of the table. Miriam repeats her first statement, and Martha nods in agreement, her eyes bright. She adjusts her necklace and hums a little in time with the classical music. (No pop music for Mycroft’s wedding reception. Far too ‘for the masses’.)

“Well, only one more to go!” Martha smiles, and Miriam can see from the near-empty glass that Sherlock’s landlady has imbibed quite a lot of alcohol. Miriam’s gaze slides over towards her youngest son, who stands in the corner of the reception room, below a rather fetching carving of a gargoyle. Beside him is Molly Hooper, the girl who accompanied him to this wedding with all the brightness and social ease her son does not possess, and is most definitely not his date. He was rather emphatic on that point when she’d mentioned it in passing.

_“Lovely to see you Molly,” she’d said outside the church, shaking hands with the small brunette. “I take it you’re Sherlock’s—?”  
_

_“_ Not _my date,” her son snapped quickly, swallowing and his cheeks growing pink when she’d turned her head and raised an eyebrow at him. His cheeks had remained pink even when she’d departed to receive the new arrivals to the church._

And he’d remained firmly by her side for all of the wedding and had only departed from her to fetch the two of them a drink. She’ll be long gone by the time her youngest gets his head removed from his posterior and gets round to asking the intelligent, kind specialist registrar that would be so good for him out on a date. Miriam sighs and looks back to Martha, saying as much.

“Oh,” Martha sighs, sympathy in her voice. “Pity. They would be very good together. She’s a remarkably calming influence on him.”

“With the amount of times I’ve served that girl Christmas dinners, you’d think they were already together,” Miriam laments, and her husband shakes his head.

“Young people – they don’t know what they have until they lose it.”

“Very well put,” Miriam says, nodding in agreement only to pause. She puts down her wine and very gently pokes her husband in the arm. He blinks, and turns his head.

“You should tell him as such. We’re all staying in the same hotel tonight – you can sit him down with a drink when the rest of us have gone up to bed.”

“Why should I be the one to talk to him?” her husband asks, his brow furrowed.

“Because what you just said won’t sound as good coming from me – it’s do with patterns in language.” 

Martha nods, and her husband rolls his eyes.

“Alright. You’re the genius, I’ll trust you.” He reaches forward and kisses her hair, and Miriam smiles and squeezes his hand a little tighter.

* * *

The hotel is called The Blue Admiral, and Sherlock doesn’t really understand why that makes Molly giggle so much. She explains it makes her think of Smurf pirates, and her features light up with her smile and her cheeks are flushed red from the warmth of her hotel and she’s petite, tiny and he could probably engulf her if he wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly and allowed himself to just  _be_  with her but he can’t think about that now, that’s just sentimentality creeping in as it always does, that’s the effect of weddings—

He allows himself to kiss her forehead. Nothing more, nothing less. Though he does keep a hold of her shoulders, which are warm to the touch.

“Goodnight, Molly.”

The blue (pastel, or baby blue, he didn’t really listen to the woman in the shop because of course he went with her, they’re friends, she’d invited him and that’s what friends do) of the skirts of her dress slip between her fingers, an absentminded gesture. She smiles, reaches up and kisses him on the cheek. 

Only she doesn’t. He moves his head at the wrong moment, she’s too quick to reach up and her mouth is as soft as he ever imagined it and he again hates himself for ever criticizing them. His hands cup at her waist, and her hips – they’re roaming, caressing her and her arms hook around his neck, her fingers reaching up into his curls, nails scratching at his scalp and oh dear God, he’s moaning, she’ll think him some sort of animal surely? But she doesn’t, no she doesn’t, she replies in kind and he turns her around, pressing her against the door to her hotel room, and he holds her tighter, kissing her deeper, everything more and more and  _more_.

Alcohol does astonishing things to his brain.

Then the moment’s gone. Creaking on the stairs and jubilant chatter of ‘goodnight’, ‘lovely evening’ and ‘such a great ceremony wasn’t it’ and the appearance of John, Mary and other groups of guests has them breaking apart. Sherlock reaches up, popping open his collar and undoing his tie. Molly brushes at her skirts. Mary shoots them both a knowing look as she and John pass but, mercifully, says nothing. Where her husband lacks tact, she has an abundance of it. Sherlock can’t face Molly though. His mind yells at him to turn, to say something suave and a little sarcastic, something that will make her laugh, but all he can come up with is a strangled cough.

So with that he bows his head once and heads down the stairs.

* * *

In the hotel lobby, some rustic place enclosed by exposed brick and dark wooden beams with patterned sofas and a painting of a ship hanging above the fireplace, he finds his mother talking lowly with his father. The stair towards the lobby creaks when he steps on it, and Sherlock knows he hates old hotels.

His mother turns, and smiles.

“Oh, Sherlock!” (She doesn’t mention his ruffled curls or his undone top button.) “Thought you were going to bed?”

“Evidently not.” The reply comes as he sinks into one of the armchairs beside the fireplace, even though it’s summer but it seems to be the night for bad decisions so why not, and his tone is one of a petulant grumble. His mother smiles, and bids him goodnight, aiming a glance at his father. She gives a (she thinks) subtle nod towards him and makes her leave.

His father pauses, then picks up a bottle of whisky.

“Care for one?” he asks. Sherlock glances behind him. A flash of his mother’s trademark paisley shawl passes his eyes, but is gone, replaced by the sound of ascending footsteps. He smirks and looks back at his father. He nods. 

His father pours out two equal portions of whisky into a tumbler each, and passes one towards his son. Sherlock takes a sip, grimaces and waits for his father to begin.

“This was your mother’s idea.”

Sherlock snorts. “Obviously.” Sinking deeper into the chair, he props himself up by shoving his fist against his cheek. “What about?”

“Molly Hooper,” his father says calmly, and Sherlock must look like he’s swallowed a lemon (or several) because his father laughs.

“Did you think we wouldn’t notice?”

“We’re not dating.” Better to get that out of the way as soon as possible, even if the statement makes him want to stay right here, with whiskey and a fake painting of a fake ship his company, and not ever have to face going back up there and passing her room, the place where they – he sighs and runs his hand over his face. He had to have the room next to hers.

“Can I just ask—”

“No.”

“Sherlock.”

“Fine.”

“What exactly is it about her?” His father takes a drink of his own whiskey. Compared to Sherlock’s glass, it’s still full. “That scares you so much?”

Sherlock’s lips twitch with a smile. There’s a question. On paper, nothing about Molly Hooper is remotely terrifying. Her looks are sweet, soft, lots of warm ‘s’ sounds. Her brain is quick, intelligent, witty, lots of sharp sounds that signify her cleverness. Her body is lithe, athletic, moving words that make him think of her waist and her breasts and how her body would look with his hands (his mouth) exploring every inch of it. Her personality is bright, bubbly, happy, blissful, ‘b’ and ‘ha-’ words that make him smile whenever he thinks of her. The combination of it all, the smile she gives as she thinks of something and the way she shifts her shoulders when she’s tired in the lab but wants to continue working, to continue learning – the combination of parts. Oh, that’s what terrifies him.

It’s been only a few moments since his father’s asked the question, but such a seismic shift (such a change) makes it feel like he hasn’t spoken for at least an hour. Or maybe two. So when he apologises, his father blinks but he ultimately says nothing. He’s used to his son and his ways.

“So,” his father asks, “what is it?”

“The concept,” is Sherlock’s final answer. His father frowns.

“Of what?”

“Of  _it_.” His father catches onto his meaning, thank God. Saves any explanation. His father leans back in his chair, crossing his legs and pressing his lips together into a thin line. He always does that when he’s thinking.

“Well, I can see why you might be afraid of it. But I don’t think you are.” Sherlock narrows his eyes. His father smiles in that way only he has, a way that says ‘I understand’. “Sherlock, what I think you’re afraid of – what I think you and Mycroft have always been afraid of – is being like other people. You get that from your mother. Because no-one chooses to fall in love, Sherlock.“

“The world would be an easier place if they did,” Sherlock muttered.

“It would, it would. But it’s not so bad, being like other people. Your mother never wanted to be like other people.”

Sherlock knocked back another gulp of his drink. “Must be a ‘genius’ thing.”

His father shrugged. “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. I don’t know. But sometimes – and don’t tell your mother I said this – it isn’t up to a formula or mathematical equation. Very often  _it_ just happens. That doesn’t mean you have to give up who you are.”

“Mother did.”

“I never wanted her to give up her career for you, Sherlock. Blasted woman said it was statistically the best thing to do!” His father laughed as he spoke, and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile back. His mother; ever the determined woman, stubborn to the very last. Still smiling, his father put his glass to one side and rose to his feet, buttoning his jacket.

“Anyway – I’m exhausted. You think on it.”

“Mm,” Sherlock said, rolling his glass between his fingers. It was true. He had always, since he was young, been afraid of being like others. He’d faked his death, after all. There were few people in the world who would even entertain the idea. (Or plenty, it depended on what conspiracy theorists you talked to.) So no wonder he had avoided it,  _love_ , for so long. The first time he had allowed himself to get entangled within it, he’d foiled an anti-terrorist plot and ended up undercover in Karachi. It had been dramatic, heart-pumping, thrilling. Perhaps that was what had scared him so much about Molly Hooper. It had been so gentle.

When a person falls in love for the first time, that person could be forgiven for thinking that was how all relationships functioned. So if a person’s first love was dysfunctional or didn’t quite work or it ended badly, that someone would probably go through the rest of their life with that fear, always at the back of their minds, that something could at any point go wrong. By contrast, if someone fell in love for the first time hard and fast, with little to no thought, and everything was happy until everything fizzled out later on, they’d most likely go on to become a serial monogamist or some such.

To experience two types of love—the first thrilling, filled with highs and lows, never leaving you alone for a minute and the second quiet, in the background, blooming and growing until it could not be ignored—is rare, and perhaps a privilege. It also leads to a great deal of confusion. 

It can lead to such confusion, that one only realises exactly what they’re doing standing in front of someone’s hotel room door until that special someone opens the door and smiles. 

From that point on, there is a stunning amount of clarity.


	165. Go Gentle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous requested that I write something inspired by ["Go Gentle"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DxL7COVckeM) by Robbie Williams. With this prompt, I decided to try something new (for me) which I think worked.

_Now when you go giving your heart,  
_ _make_ _sure they deserve it.  
_ _If they haven’t earned it,  
_ _Keep searching, it’s worth it._

The problem with being kind, the problem with wearing your heart on your sleeve, is that you aren’t as carefree in love as people think you are. 

If you laugh around someone, or tease them, whispers of a crush follow you around until your friendship with that person becomes monosyllabic and non-existent. So you try again, with another person, and it takes people an even shorter time to start up again, giggling and wondering, and you’re back to square one with conversations made up of single syllable words. 

This happens so often – wash, rinse, repeat – that if you feel any inkling of affection (of romantic love, an inkling that you know could overwhelm you if you don’t pay good enough attention) for anyone, you hide it. 

You hide it from others, you fight to suppress a blush when the person is around because you know that when you reach out to someone you think you trust and tell them how you feel, it’s out there. That inkling is exposed, made public and quashed before anything can be made of it. The solution, you find, is to cover it up, say nothing and stay in the background.

It’s hard though, to stay in the background when the one you love (it’s past an inkling, you allowed yourself to feed on it) sees straight past your defence. It’s even harder when they do nothing about it.

* * *

He frequently comes to you for help, flirts with you when you say no, and there’s a small part of you that wonders if there’s something more to it. You don’t bring it up, you can’t bring it up, he’s too busy and so are you – you both have lives to lead. So it’s just there, this thing that’s grown too big to actually discuss. (How can you discuss love and romance with a man who avidly avoids it?) It nags at the back of your mind though, nags and nags until you start to convince yourself it’s true, and you end up asking out a psychopath to dinner. 

You’ve been on three dates with the man and you introduce him to your colleagues, to the man who can never seem to leave you alone for too long and gives you hope in the process. That man – it turns out – is wrong in his deductions, but he’s not wrong in his instinct. Jim from IT is not who he says he is; he’s a criminal mastermind who has blown innocent civilians up for fun.

You think, for the first week, that you’ll never get over it. That you’ll always be the woman who inadvertently dated a psychopath. Ha, how fun! How quirky! Look at her, isn’t she stupid.

But nobody mentions it. They just shake their heads at the news and mutter about how awful it all is. Not even  _he_  mentions it. It’s your little secret, your own private accident. 

There’s a benefit to being invisible, to being plain.

Then you make the mistake of trying to be something you're not. You buy him a book on beekeeping, as you've been round his flat once before to drop off some body parts to him (a head, which he promised he’d keep safe) and saw a book on bees tucked away in his untidy bookshelves. It’s a cute present, something silly and fun that’ll make him notice that you too can observe people, even him.

He shoots down that plan with vicious words and you know people expect you to be upset, to crumple up and cry, but you're not. Every word you hear that comes from his poisoned mouth makes you angry. Your ire rises up and usually you're good, you keep a lid on things, but this time you fight back. It’s quiet and stumbling and shaking, your voice, because you want nothing more than to slap him. 

But the quiet, it – it works somehow. By some miracle, it works and he wishes you a Merry Christmas and kisses you on the cheek. 

You barely feel his lips against your skin because you’re too surprised, too absorbed by his low rumble of an apology. You have made  _him_  apologise. No wonder everyone looks shocked.

Then the moment’s broken by a orgasmic moan, and you’re both back to awkward hand gestures and stuttered sentences. He heads into his bedroom, a small red package in his hands (not yours, yours was put absentmindedly to one side) and closes the door. Greg tries to lightly converse with you, but you can’t engage, everything’s too tight, too uncomfortable now. You make your excuses and leave.

At midnight, you receive a call from his older brother, the cool and calm government man who seems to delight in his superiority. You’ve met him once before, during which he asked you to act as a spy. The concern he holds for his brother moved you, but you didn’t hesitate in your answer.  _No! What made you think I’d accept?_

You don’t hesitate in your answer now. Of course you’ll be there, you’ll get a taxi. After all, you’re you and you can’t turn down a friend in need.

* * *

A dead man sits in your flat, on your sofa, with a blanket over his shoulders and a mug of tea in his hands, and you realise for the first time how frail he is. How human he is. He’s so adamant that he’s a machine, above it all, above everyone else. (If this realisation is jarring to you, think about how disquieting it must be for him.)

He doesn’t say anything for a long, long time. He mumbles under his breath, occasionally, but never speaks out loud, never projects his voice. His mind palace, you remember. He must be traversing its corridors, pacing up and down, trying to find something.

You don’t ask if he’s okay when he blinks, straightens up and asks what the time is. You just smile and tell him.

He realises his tea’s gone cold. You offer to make another.

That’s as far in banal conversation that the two of you can get.

You go to bed. Leave him. He’s departing in the morning anyway.

You’re half awake when the door opens. You’re fully awake when the bed dips with his weight.

The murmurs, the arms that lock around your waist and his slow breaths; they mean nothing. And you’re remembering some advice your father told you when you were little and didn’t exactly know what his words meant.  _Make sure he’s worth it, love. Make sure you give that big heart to someone who deserves it._

This is not like the realisation that he, the man you love, is as human as you. That’s a jolt, something that moves rapidly up your spine and sparks at something in your mind. This is a sinking feeling, something that makes your stomach drop and feel almost hollow. How it comes about, you don’t know.

Perhaps – perhaps he isn’t worth it after all, all the fawning and hoping and silent waiting. 

And then you turn your head, see him sleeping and realise that the way in which you love him isn’t at all how you believed you did.

It’s much, much deeper than that. 

It’s not a crush that people whisper and giggle about. It’s more than admiration of high cheekbones and blue eyes. It’s a love that you’d risk your whole career for. 10 years of your life? That’s nothing, when he shows up in your lab and claims he needs your help, and that he  _trusts_  you to help him.

Everything’s too tight again.

So you open your eyes, take his arms and gently prise them away from your waist, and shift away to the edge of the bed, until there’s nothing but a chasm between the two of you.

You sleep peacefully then.

The problem is, you don’t stay awake long enough to say goodbye to him.


	166. En Route.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt of: "Sherlock and Molly going on a road trip". Since I can’t possibly hope to achieve the heights of the classic Longer Than the Road Stretches Out Ahead, I approached this prompt from a different angle.

Sherlock adjusted his tie, and, for the first time, registered that he was wearing it. A garment that others wore every day, a banal thing they barely thought about, but the weight of it made him feel oddly off-balance. A lick of a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth as he let his hands fall back to his side, his fingers curled a little against his palm.

John stood in the doorway, Mary beside him. It was Mary who spoke.

“Taxi’s waiting. Ready to go?”

Taking one look in the mirror, he nodded and turned away and headed down the stairs.

* * *

The familiar putter of the taxi irritated him beyond belief and he tapped his fingers against his knee, his eyes fixed on the road. Grey buildings, modern and old, passed him and he gave none of them of his usual proper attention. The tie, that damned tie, still gnawed at him, still made him feel not quite himself.

He only forgot about it when the taxi driver took a wrong turning. He snapped at the driver, but the driver only shrugged, glancing up at Sherlock through his mirror, and told him he was only driving the route he was told to mate, honest to God.

The reason hoved into view barely a moment after the driver had spoken. Sherlock stiffened.

“Who chose this route?” John lowered his head at the question, brushing at the lapels of his jacket before he crossed his arms over his chest.

“I did.”

Seemed obvious now. John dared to look slightly smug as Sherlock kept his gaze locked on the window. The grey concrete walls of St. Bart’s Hospital flitted by, and Sherlock sunk lower in his seat.

He hadn’t met her in her place of work, no that had come later. No, the first time he met her had been in the canteen under too bright fluorescent lighting when he was being forced to endure the apparently required “tour of the facilities”.

“Oh! Molly!” Mike Stamford, spotting her from his place at the doorway, waved in her direction and beckoned her over. He’d expected some intern, some nervous creature who could barely get a word out.

She defied the expectation, only hesitating for a moment before she stuck her hand out and gave a polite smile.

“This is Molly Hooper, our pathologist in residence,” Stamford said warmly. “Molly, this is Sherlock Holmes. He’s a detective – works with the police.”

Sherlock took her hand, shook it and saw that she wore contact lenses for every day use (perhaps had started doing so after beginning work at the hospital, considering the photograph on her ID card, which was understandable, no-one wanted blood spatter on their lenses), was a size 8 in clothing, left handed, attracted to him and had recently become an owner of a somewhat temperamental cat (there were scratch marks on her arms and one on the back of her hand, but the scalpel scars on her left hand never went higher than her wrists).

“Private detective?” she asked, to which he automatically rolled his eyes.

“Consulting,” he corrected, letting his hand drop from hers and tucking it behind his back.

“Oh. Well, I – I look forward to working with you, Mr Holmes.” She directed a sweet smile towards him. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t stop. I’ve got this cancer victim I need to do an autopsy on, so – um – yeah – I’ll be off.”

And she’d slipped away, just like that, with the canteen door swinging gently in her wake.

It had taken him seven years, 11 months and a death (his) to realise that he loved her.

* * *

A line of three cars waited on the pavement, earning glances from passers-by. Lestrade stood with Sally, their fingers gently interlinked as they exchanged quiet conversation with Anthea. Mycroft stood beside his secretary, making predictably no contribution to the conversation. He only looked away, towards Anthea, when he saw their taxi round the corner and pull up towards the building. John, with a slight clearing of his throat, reached into his wallet and passed a handful of notes towards the driver, telling him to keep the change.

Sherlock sat, frozen, in his seat. Seeing St. Bart’s had calmed him, but now he felt constricted, everything too loud and too much and he wanted nothing more than to jump out of the taxi and run all the way back to the quiet of Baker Street.

He ended up following John out of the taxi and towards the building. Brass numbers, against a grey slate clock face, ticked away the time and he stood beside John, all of their company in a neat little line, and waited.

As ever, she was late. 10 minutes late, to be exact. Enough to make others worry, and him smile with light amusement. The car slowly made its way towards the doors of the building (no church, she was never one for tradition, not with this sort of thing anyway) and she got out, aided by others. White was her colour, and Sally smiled and Mary delicately wiped away a tear.

Sherlock only turned and straightened his shoulders. The beginning chords of the music started, and he dutifully led the way.


	167. Not Broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked for an established!Sherlolly fic inspired by the song ["Just Give Me a Reason"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w7JRWHCKkIY) by Pink.

_It’s in the stars_  
_It’s been written in the scars on our hearts_  
 _We’re not broken just bent_  
 _And we can learn to love again_

She’s thought about so many things in regards to Sherlock Holmes. What it would be like to have him love her, what it would be like for her to be able properly love him (not just from afar but with everything she has), how glorious it would be. How thrilling, how unconventional it would be. Fantasies of superficial little things have flooded her mind. She’s experienced those little things, done those little things, and they’ve been as beautiful as she thought.

The problem was that she’d never stopped to imagine what it would be like to hate Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

She’d taken every precaution. She’d come into the flat using her own key, on a time she knew he’d be out (advantage of marriage – you know the other’s routine), but Mrs Hudson had been too kind, too eager to converse for her to turn her offer of a cup of tea down and now she’s standing in the living room with him at the doorway and her jaw slack from not knowing what on Earth to say.

Neither does he, it seems. He stands there, for ages, hands locked, back stiff and face frozen. Perhaps he assumed she’d never be back here.

She breaks. “I just came up to get – it’s—” (she’s scrambling to pick up her things, her jacket and the box of trinkets that seems so trivial now but he’ll be grateful in the long run, and it’s embarrassing) “okay – I’ll, um, go.”

She shoves her arms into her jacket, clumsily, and her cheeks flush with heat and she lowers her head, grabs at the box and makes a swift exit.

Except she doesn’t. He says her name, quiet as anything, and against all better judgement, she stops.

* * *

It started, all of it, a year ago. He grew disinterested and monosyllabic. The quirkiness, the unconventionality of their relationship faded into something normal, some domestic routine.

“That’s fine,” her mother, Mary and everyone had told her when she’d relayed her fears to them. Less than a year of marriage, and he was already bored by her? “He’s just settling in – you know how he is.”

Oh, yes. She knew. She knew him, and she knew that Sherlock Holmes never let himself get bored. He found something to do, some way to make it interesting again. He picked up threads, echoes of some potential for intrigue. He never let himself be relaxed. It wasn’t in his personality.

She only grew terrified when she realised she had grown monosyllabic too. They barely reached eight words before they went their separate ways, her to her work or the television and him to his experiments or his cases. That was when the rows had started – but even those had a routine to them. 

They’d start off small, sarcastic comments that escalated to bickering that evolved into explosions and tantrums and walking out. It was often him who stormed out of the flat, unwilling to concede defeat to her. And she would be in the flat, alone, her fists curled into tight balls and short spurts of frustrated screams accompanying her beating at the sofa or the bed. She was too angry to do anything else. (Very often Mrs Hudson would give her a cup of tea, telling her that her and her husband Frank were much the same which although a sweet gesture, wasn’t exactly the most comforting, considering.)

He began to sleep in the spare room two months after the rows started. Every night, she’d brush her teeth and change into her pyjamas, hearing his pacing footsteps above her and she’d clutch harder at her pillow, ignoring the empty space beside her and hissing swear words under her breath until she fell asleep. Then he’d come down for breakfast, hair tousled and pyjamas crinkled from where he’d tossed and turned too much in his sleep but his eyes bright and alert, and she’d be reminded about why exactly she loved him and why it was so hard for her to pack her bags and leave.

Other than breakfast, they’d barely see each other. He never came into the lab or the morgue off-duty now, only when it was part of a case, and usually when there was one of her colleagues on duty. Either she worked late, or he did, but waiting up for the other, it seemed, had become another part of their routine. Of course they never spoke about it. No point in talking about one thing when you barely talk about anything else.

They tried counselling on the sixteenth month of their marriage. It was a dismal failure. She couldn’t open up, however hard she tried (it’s difficult to explain how feeling everything at once feels in the space of 30 minutes), and he just didn’t bother. He just sat there, staring at the wooden pattern of the coffee table with his hands folded in his lap until it was time to go, and that was it.

She’d packed her bags after the second appointment.

* * *

“I…” He opens his mouth, one syllable drops out, and he shuts it again. She remains standing at the edge of the stairs, the flat of her foot rocking against the top step. It’s a nervous habit that she could never quit. He’s never asked her to.

She shrugs, hugging the box closer to her.

“You…?”

He turns on his heel, his head lowered, and tugs a little at his gloves. He puffs out a sigh as he shoves his hands into his coat pocket. He looks away from her.

“I was scared. That’s why I didn’t say anything.” He flaps a hand uselessly. “In the – counselling.”

He looks like a boy, a lonely lost boy, and it makes her want to cry. She swallows.

“I’m scared too.” He doesn’t mention the lack of  _was_. Just nods.

There’s a beat of silence that neither of them can fill, even if they wanted to.

“Good afternoon Molly.”

Her lips twitch with a smile and the words “thank you” come from her mouth, voice small, before she turns and descends the stairs. She feels him watching her until she’s out of the front door.

She wants nothing more than to turn back around.

Behind her, the door opens.


	168. Stupid Cupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this for sundance201, who requested fun things to cheer her up. So I took up the suggestion of an anonymous user (who had sent an ask to mizjoely on this subject) and wrote a TSoT!Sherlolly twist on [this scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IXY962z-Kzc) from The Princess Diaries 2.

Molly Hooper was over Sherlock Holmes. She was. She was engaged to a very nice man, thank you very much, who was attractive and treated her nicely and flirted with her when he desired and not simply when he wanted something. She was so over Sherlock Holmes that she felt no qualms, when they were alone and separated from the main wedding party, in telling him so. Not in as many words, but she did tell him.

His response, firstly, was to laugh. He followed that with one single, dry (and utterly irrelevant) question.

“And you waited to tell me all of this when we were alone?”

“No.” She huffed and turned on her heel, stomping down the path and further into the gardens, glaring at him over her shoulder. 

“That was a coincidence,” she said primly. He shrugged.

“Fair enough. But if I can just defend myself on one point…?”

She turned her head, advancing further up the path. “Which is?”

“The flirting. I never flirted with you.”

Now it was her turn to give the mirthless laugh. “Hm! Oh really? The Blind Banker! That was what John called it.”

He frowned, hands in his pockets. “The Black Lotus murders. What about it?”

“When I refused to let you see some of the bodies, you complimented my hair.” Molly turned, focusing on the consulting detective as she continued to walk backwards. “What was that, if not flirting?”

His reply never came; instead his reply seemed to be a non-verbal one, for he took one large step forward and in one smooth motion, wound his arm around her waist and held her tightly to him. Molly squeaked.

“What are you doing?!” She batted at him, pushing him away and hurriedly adjusting the skirts of her dress. “You can’t go grabbing people like that Sherlock! And you can’t go around flirting with people to get your own way either!”

“You were about to fall into the fountain,” Sherlock said irritably. “And, by the way, flattery and flirting are not the same thing.”

“That isn’t an answer,” Molly said, raising an eyebrow and she turned to leave – only to find herself turning back around and being held tightly against Sherlock’s torso. Her eyes narrowed.

“What? Was I about to walk into a tree or something?”

He swallowed.

“N-no.”

“Oh.”

He stared, stared for a little more, before finally he cleared his throat and stepping back. He gave a small nod of his head, gave a mumbled remark of goodbye and hurried from the gardens.

* * *

Mary had wondered where Sherlock and Molly had got to, and when the consulting detective stormed into the reception room, she tried not to wonder if her worst fears had been realised.

“Do I, uh, want to know?” Mary asked, eyeing the reception’s entrance to see Molly slipping inside and approaching her fiance to hug him in greeting.

“I don’t think so, no,” Sherlock said and he made a grab of her wine, taking a large gulp. His nose crinkled in disgust.

“You’re right,” he muttered, shoving the wine glass back into her hand. “That is horrid.”

He left without another word.


	169. The Unexpected Guard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welovesherlolly asked for me to write a story based on the Tumblr AU "there’s a noise coming from the bathroom and i don’t know what it is and you’re my neighbour so i go to you for help and you get a cricket bat and kick the door down and it turns out to be a frog on the windowsill and it’s three am and we’re both half-dressed and it’s suddenly awkward". However I find that those AUs tend to write themselves - so I changed the prompt, a lot.

Sometimes, when an ex appeared in Molly’s life, it was a good thing. It provided closure. Either that or there was an awkward moment shared and a scuffling of feet, followed by snatches of small talk before both parties moved on. None of her previous exes however, had ever forced her into living in the same area, the same vicinity, as the man she had helped kill and was now a murderer himself. That latter fact was still a sticking point between the two of them (how could it not be?) and was somewhat why Molly was curled up in the bed, burrowed under the covers and unwilling to move.

The sound, a strange drawn out creak, came again. It sounded almost frog-like – if that frog had no lungs and a cold. Molly glanced around the barely furnished room. In her own flat, she would’ve grabbed her trusted cricket bat from underneath her bed and gone out to examine what exactly was out there. Sadly, living undercover had stripped her of such a luxury.

Molly jumped, a small gasp coming up from the back of her throat. There it was again; the creak. Followed by a – Molly’s shoulders sank a little and her brows lowered into a frown. A groan, she’d heard a, low and protracted sound as if someone had woken from a deep sleep. She sat up.

Carefully, she shifted to the edge of the bed, swinging her legs over. Her feet pressed against the freezing cold of the wooden slats and she winced. Apparently even two pairs of socks couldn’t keep out the cold of the Outer Hebrides. Hurriedly, she reached down and grabbed the handle of her suitcase, dragging it out from underneath the bed. A rapid search preceded her wrapping herself in the thickest cardigan possible and a third pair of socks, the hem of her pyjamas tucked into the edges of the luridly coloured, badly knitted garments. (Christmas present from some aunt years back, they still made her smile, even in situations like this.)

Shivering, she stood and approached the door. Tightening her hold on her cardigan, she reached forward and her fingers grasped at the door handle to pull open the door.

Her frown disappeared, her eyebrow tilting upwards. Sherlock tilted his head up towards her.

Hooded top, pyjama bottoms, t-shirt, scarf and blanket. It was an odd look for a man usually so devoted to his suits.

“What are you doing there?” she whispered. Sherlock’s main response was to sigh. A cloud of his breath flooded out from his lips, pale in the dim light.

“Go back to sleep Molly,” he said softly, fidgeting and pulling himself upright. He hissed a little, touching at the small of his back. “These old houses…”

“Ummm – why – why aren’t you in your bedroom?”

“Too cold – couldn’t sleep,” Sherlock explained, his voice still low but clipped, crisp with frustration. “Get back inside, Molly.”

Molly found herself rather unsure of where to go. Now she knew Sherlock had given up his bedroom and situated himself outside her room for the rest of the night, the idea of sleep seemed rather, well, impossible.

“And you’re,” she rolled her tongue over her bottom lip, searching for the right word, “comfortable sitting –  _there_ , are you?”

“Yes,” he hissed, far too quick for her to really believe him.

“Why didn’t you go to another room?” she asked softly, crossing her arms over her chest. “I mean—”

“I’m not the one being hunted by a psychopath Molly,” Sherlock hissed and he drew the blanket tighter around his shoulders, almost like a sulking child. Molly straightened, blinked, and blinked again.

“Sherlock, are you—” She swallowed a laugh and tucked back her hair. “You’re watching over me. Aren’t you?”

“N-no.”

“This is your brother’s safe house,” Molly whispered.

“All the more reason,” he bit back, glancing up at her. The severe look in his eyes however, was marred when he again shivered from the bitter cold. Molly scanned him, and her eyes widened when she saw that Sherlock’s feet were bare.

“Oh, for – Sherlock, you, this – it’s…” She dug her heel into the floor and chewed at her bottom lip. She huffed out a sigh. “I’m perfectly  _fine_. I promise.”

He said nothing to that, nor did he move. Molly stared at the consulting detective, sat hunched over in the corridor of an old manor house built in the Elizabethan era if not earlier, and she smiled a small smile. She leaned against the doorway and held out a hand.

Sherlock frowned up at her.

“If you’re going to protect me, I’d rather you were in the same room.”

The consulting detective hesitated, seeming to grow progressively more still as he stared at her, to her outstretched hand and back to her again. It was almost a surprise to see him take it.

Grasping his hand tighter, Molly helped him to his feet and escorted him inside.

* * *

“Jesus!” Molly squeaked, squirreling away and glaring at the consulting detective. “Your feet are  _freezing_ , Sherlock.”

“I couldn’t find any socks,” he said by way of explanation and he gave a rather petulant tug of the bed sheets. “You’re stealing the covers anyway.”

“I do not steal the covers!”

“You do, Molly. Surprised you didn’t know.”

“When I’m sleeping, I’m usually on my own,” Molly said through gritted teeth, tucking her head against the pillow. “I don’t have to share.”

“If you want me back outside in the corridor, I’ll go.”

“No! I don’t—” Molly squeezed her eyes shut, clutching tighter at the sheet. “You can stay, just – I don’t like cold feet.”

“Then I’ll move them.”

Molly almost envied the laissez faire attitude Sherlock seemed to have to the general order of life, the way in which he appeared able to adapt to any sort of situation; an attitude which seemed to allow him to sleep anywhere, including a cold corridor. It was utterly at odds with the rest of him, the curious side that made him see everything with an eye which was cold, calculated and the very thing that had made her notice him.

“It’s not like I immediately thought of sleeping in the corridor.” Sherlock’s natural low rumble made her jump. “I did think—”

He let her imagination complete his sentence, and she tried not to let her imagination run riot as she turned her head to look at him. 

“You were going to ask to share a bed with me?”

He gave a single nod. “Then I thought – with recent –  _events_ , you…” He let out a breath, and fixed her with a stare. “Would you have…?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I did.”

“Yes.” The word left his mouth in one smooth sigh of a sound. He broke their gaze, tilting his eyes up towards the window. The thin gossamer did nothing to stifle the bright beam of moonlight. “You did.”

Molly shifted, rolling onto her back. “You know – we might be warmer if we—”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he looked at her. “You want to—”

“No!” She bit at her lip, flapping a hand. “Not like that – in the body survival sense. It’s proven to have helped people in the past.”

A pause preceded his answer. “If it’ll stop you stealing the covers.”

Molly huffed as she rolled onto her side and shifted closer towards him, burrowing against his chest. “I don’t steal the covers,” she mumbled, flicking out her hair behind her. Sherlock held her waist tightly and she tried not to think about how right it felt, his right hand on her waist and the other on the small of her back.

She was drifting off, halfway between sleep and awake when she heard him speak again.

“I’m sorry.”

She didn’t have to wonder what his apology was for. That was what made her love him, and what made him so fearful, made them both so fearful; the ease with which she read him.

“I’m sorry too.” She let out a breath of a chuckle, closing her eyes once more. “Which makes us even, I guess.”

“Molly…” She blinked, her eyes fluttering open to look at Sherlock. A dry remark about sleep interruption had been ready and waiting on the tip of her tongue, but the look in his eyes caused that same remark to fade away.

“What is it?”

“Do you—” He swallowed thickly. “Nothing.”

“Okay. Just, um, Sherlock?”

“Mm?”

“It’s alright. To – feel whatever you’re feeling.” It was a leap of faith, her words, however softly or delicately she had said them. Could be nothing, could be everything. Depended, really.

So it seemed fitting that his acceptance of her words came in the form of a soft sigh and a crack of a smile. His hand traced up the path of her back, pressing her closer towards him as his fingers began to idly play with the tips of her hair. His lips were soft against her forehead and her temple and she gave a soft moan, wrapping her arms around him. His mouth hovered against hers, the lightest of touches.

A shriek broke the moment. Specifically, a shriek of one word.

“ _Feet!_ ”


	170. The Appeal of Motorbikes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt of "Sherlock + his motorbike = happy Molly".

It all started with Marcus. Marcus Smythe-Robinson (back when she went through a posh boy phase and hadn’t realised that class did not make a gentleman). He was tall, slightly tanned from endless holidays with sunned blonde curls. She cringed when they’d split up, cringed to think she could ever have fallen for that sort of person, but his motorbike had admittedly played a large part in the attraction.

Molly huffed and typed out a text.

_Outside St. Bart’s – where are you? Mx_

Twenty minutes, he had kept her waiting. “Molly, I need you on this case – wait for me outside St. Bart’s,” he’d said on the phone, hanging up before she could tell him she would only wait for half an hour because, contrary to what he seemed to blindly believe, she did have a life outside of him.

Marcus had been a self-absorbed arse, but unfortunately, he wasn’t like Sherlock and aware of the fact. Indeed, any time he opened his mouth it was to brag about simply marvellous he was, didn’t you know?

Admittedly, all of his superior manner remained whenever he was on his bike, but when he roared along the country lanes with her behind him, she could barely hear any of it. Her phone trilled with Sherlock’s reply.

_On my way. – SH_

Molly rolled her eyes. Ever the helpful man.

Luckily, Marcus’ personality had soon outweighed the beauty and the thrill of his motorbike. It would be another two years and one boyfriend later that another motorbike would enter her life. 

Grown out of her posh boy phase and more focused on her education than anything else at all, she’d met Alfie in a bar. He’d been cute, good-looking and had proved to be a good conversationalist – even if he was, bless him, just that little bit dull.

Then she’d found out that, behind the suits and the saloon car and general accountant exterior, Alfie had a penchant for the classic motorbike. Unlike Posh Knob Marcus, the motorbike was not a veneer, a veil, that served to (however temporarily) hide a rubbish interior but a part of Alfie’s personality; a proper passion. It served to add to his charm, his sweetness. That sadly hadn’t stopped their relationship from fizzling out after 18 months together.

Yet the thread of the motorbike had remained in her life. Though Alfie was the last man in her life who had owned a motorbike, she had never been able to quite remove that shudder that went up her spine whenever she heard the sound of an engine or the fascination she’d always held for just how they worked. She was sure she romanticised the concept of the motorbike, that it was much more difficult, much more painstaking, than her memories remembered but that knowledge didn’t stop her from finding a secret thrill in following the Isle of Man TT every year it came onto her television.

A familiar rumble echoed down the street and Molly bit back a smile. She turned her head. A motorbike, all black and chrome, roared its way down the street. The driver, clad in leather, was hunched over its controls. One thing Molly could appreciate was the way in which some bikes could very much flatter someone’s body.

Her smile fell when the motorbike slowed, pulling up the pavement. She was more than prepared to make up some story to put off whatever creepy chat-up line was headed her way, but her eyebrows rapidly tilted upwards as she fully turned to face the driver of the motorbike.

Oh. That… was unexpected.

Sherlock gave a grin and ruffled a little at his curls, stepping off the motorbike.

“Something wrong, Molly?”

Molly gave a small smile. 

“No. Nothing’s wrong. So—” She stepped forward. “You mentioned something about a case?”


	171. Lockdown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: "When they're in an established relationship, Sherlolly is stuck in a lockdown."

Greg hurried down the corridor, Mary following on behind.

“How did they get trapped there in the first place?” Mary asked, tucking her phone into her pocket. (John, stuck in a rather quiet GP’s office had laughed for a good few minutes on hearing of his best friend’s predicament.)

“I don’t know – Sherlock didn’t really explain,” Lestrade said over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they got a bit – distracted.”

Mary gave a single nod, but didn’t reply. Just because Sherlock Holmes was in a long overdue relationship with Molly Hooper, that didn’t mean they were automatically going to be at it everywhere at every opportunity. After all, she and John hadn’t been like that. Well, there had been the time in the changing room – and the alleyway. Mary fought back a blush, glancing at Greg and hoped that John hadn’t believed that an appropriate subject to brag about.

“He gave me the code over the phone,” Greg said, approaching the door and he gave a grin. “I’ll knock first – give ‘em a chance to make themselves decent.”

Greg’s smile dropped when the lab door finally opened and he stepped inside. Mary fought back a giggle when she saw Sherlock sat at his microscope and Molly stood beside him, intently making her way through a pile of paperwork.

Sherlock looked up on their entrance.

“Oh, Mary. You got here then – at last.” He stood, snapping off his gloves. His brows furrowed as he looked to Greg. “What is it, Lestrade?”

“Nothing, just, um – yeah. Good to know you’re okay. Gotta get back.” Clearing his throat, Greg quickly departed.

“What’s wrong with him?” Molly asked, glancing after the detective inspector.

“Dunno – I guess he assumed with you two being ‘young lovers’ and all…”

Molly scoffed and shuffled the pile of papers in front of her. “Has Greg never heard of PPE? I’d never have sex in the lab. Or the morgue, actually.”

“We do have standards of hygiene to maintain,” Sherlock said, a flick of a smile appearing on his mouth. “Anyway, we use the storage cupboard for all of that.”

Molly’s eyes fluttered closed. Mary was quite amazed she could be so calm in the face of such smugness.

“Sherlock,” she murmured, side-eyeing her detective. “No-one’s supposed to  _know_  about that.”


	172. Reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr user potterlockianegalitarian928's prompt: Sherlock attends his High School Reunion for a case and his former classmates are stunned to see his pregnant wife. I changed the prompt slightly though, so it was more a university reunion than a high school one.

When he walked into the hall, Sebastian was all prepared to inform his former classmates of his recent promotion—as well as his even more recent procurement of a rather stunning Rolex, if he did say so himself—but there was a sight that met his eyes which rather stopped him in his tracks.

He blinked, cleared his throat, shifted his weight on his feet and rubbed a little at his temple for good measure.

Sherlock Holmes, with a woman. An actual, living and breathing female. The female he recognised. Nadia Jenkins, who had been quite the sauce pot when she was a university student but had, well, got on a bit in recent years so it seemed. The true surprise however was that Sherlock, who had been so seemingly anti-woman in his university years and had strived to ignore them, was conversing with Nadia with an astonishing amount of ease. He almost seemed happy.

Sebastian shook his head and headed towards the drinks table. Perhaps he was drunk. Seemed plausible. After all, the only times he’d been funny back in the university days were when he’d been plastered. Reaching for a glass of red wine (no doubt some cheap tat that the organisers had picked up from the local supermarket), Sebastian turned and watched as Sherlock continued to nod politely as Nadia chattered along.

“Christ, I’m exhausted! Haven’t danced so much in ages!”

Sebastian turned his head. A woman, brown-haired and smiling, picked up a bottle of water and drank from it. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hair was scooped back into a bun, loose tendrils falling over her face. Sebastian frowned. The woman glanced at him, as if surprised to see him there. Rapidly apologising for her rudeness, she stuck out a hand.

“Hi – name’s Molly.”

“Sebastian,” he replied, shaking his head and scanning her. She wasn’t half bad, to tell the truth. Small tits, but nice legs that made up for it. He looked out at the main section of the hall, pointing towards Sherlock. “Do you remember that bloke? That’s Sherlock Holmes – he was in my year.”

Molly blinked briefly, and then smiled as she brushed back her hair. “Yeah, he’s—”

“Total arse, of course. Everyone thought so. Hated women too. Never saw him come back to the flat with one.”

“Oh.” Molly took a small sip of her water. A smile was at the edge of her mouth. “Must be a surprise then, to see him talk to a woman.”

“Bloody big surprise, let me tell you.” He shifted closer to Molly, leaning against the table. “So – what’d you study? I don’t remember you being in any of my classes.”

“Pathology,” she answered. Sebastian frowned.

“That’s a bit of a specialised subject, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “Yep. It is. Well, a little bit more specialised than, let’s say, accounting.”

“Right,” Sebastian said. He scratched slightly at his cheek, letting his eyes drop down towards Molly’s rather delightful arse. “I didn’t know our university taught pathology.”

“You didn’t.” Her reply was accompanied with a cold smile and Sebastian looked up. She turned her head, fully facing him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go back to my husband.”

Sebastian’s mouth dangled open, and only widened when Molly, putting her drink to one side, strolled straight towards Nadia and Sherlock, gave a wide, friendly smile of hello to the former and a rather large greeting kiss to the latter.

* * *

“Not that I’m complaining about the kiss,” Sherlock said, leaning forward to start the car as he glanced over at Molly, “but was it really necessary?”

“If you’d seen the way he was looking at my arse, you’d say it was,” Molly replied, settling back into the car seat. “I’m sorry for interrupting your conversation though.”

“Don’t worry – managed to get the information I needed from Nadia, so it was fine. Apparently she wants me to investigate her husband’s accounts. She thinks he might be embezzling from his company.”

“Good,” Molly said, stretching a little and she gave a lazy yawn. “I mean, not really  _good_  good – but you know what I mean.”

“That I do.” Sherlock turned the car to head out of the car park. “And I did see the way Sebastian looked at your arse, by the way.”

“And you didn’t think to come over and fight for my honour?” Molly asked playfully. “I’m shocked.”

“I thought you could do a pretty good job by yourself,” Sherlock replied with a smile and he grinned when Molly’s hand subconsciously settled against her stomach. She was only a few weeks along, so there wasn’t anything showing just yet, but it was nice to know that in nine months, they would have a child.

“Imagine if I’d told him  _that_ ,” Molly said with a laugh. “I think he might’ve keeled over from the shock. Funny really – some people just can’t compute it. The idea of you, being human. Doing things ordinary people do.”

“For a long while, I couldn’t compute it,” Sherlock admitted. “It’s your fault you know – you helped me see different.”

“Well…” With her trademark bright smile, Molly reached forward and held his hand, bending her head to lightly kiss at his knuckles. “I’m very glad I did.”


	173. Bath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> penaltywaltz sent me 3 prompts. The first was this: "Sherlock does an experiment which backfires horribly in the path lab and leaves it smelling worse than sulfur, right before Molly has to spend AT LEAST three hours there running samples. He vows to make it up to her and proceeds to do exactly that." I could only manage a short drabble though.

He had already seen Molly Hooper naked once before, but that didn’t stop him from blinking as he stepped into the bathroom and she met him with a cool stare.

“It’s you,” she said. He nodded. That was he could do, his brain switched back to that night—which felt like a whole age ago but in reality was only two years—when they were running high on adrenaline. Breaking her gaze with him, Molly drew water over her hair and scooped it back. Part of him had expected her to scream and blush and yell at him just for standing there like they were stuck in some kind of comedic situation, but she reminded him that they were not that. Reality, real life, that was what they were stuck in.

“Don’t – come closer,” she said, raising her eyes to look back at him when he stepped forward. Her nose crinkled. “I smell horrid.”

“Yes. Sorry about that, again.” He took another step forward and removed his jacket to roll up his sleeves. He crouched beside the bathtub. “And considering I’m the one at fault – I might as well help. Mightn’t I?”

She turned her head to fully focus on him, a query in the slight quirk at the corner of her lips.

“Yeah.” Her mouth grew into a smile. She gently swirled her hands against the water and gave a single nod. “You might.”


	174. Promotion.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> penaltywaltz's second prompt: "Molly has been offered a job at another hospital, with a substantial pay increase, a better title and supervisory duties while still being able to work for Scotland Yard. Sherlock is surprisingly 100% supportive of this and their friends are perplexed, but what they don't know is that Sherlock also got provisions at said hospital (bigger lab of his own and access to any bodies and body parts he wanted) since the head of the hospital is a huge fan of his."

“So let me get this straight—” Mary’s eyebrows knit together, that slight confused contempt in her eyes which that told anyone she aimed it at how much of an idiot she thought they were being. She sighed and waved away the rest of her sentence.

“I’m not refusing the job. It’s a great promotion, great career move – I mean, I just…” Molly curled her legs up underneath herself and folded her arms, her lips pressing together in thought. “I can’t help but wonder.”

“You wonder how Sherlock’s going to take it?”

“Well, he does love routine. He hates it when a new intern comes into the lab – how do you think he’ll react when he walks in and finds a whole new doctor standing there? I feel like I’m going to have to leave a folder of instructions for my replacement or something.”

At that, Mary giggled. “How to Deal with Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective: Volume One. Is that it?”

“Oh, that would need several volumes,” Molly replied with a laugh. “A whole dossier, really.”

“What are you two laughing about then?” John, entering the living room with a sleeping Holly in his arms, smiled at his wife and Molly. 

“Just my new job,” Molly answered, watching as Mary reached out for Holly, smiling when John pressed a kiss to her forehead in greeting.

“Oh, right.” John settled easily into his armchair. “Sherlock says congratulations by the way.”

The two women exchanged a brief look.

“Sherlock knows?” Molly asked.

“Yeah. Told him about it when me and Holly saw him earlier at Baker Street.” John frowned. “Didn’t he already know?”

Molly bit at her lip. “Not exactly. I was planning on breaking it to him slowly.”

John’s eyebrows tilted upwards. “Hm. Interesting. He was pretty calm when I bought it up – that’s why I assumed you’d already – you know.”

Molly sat up, leaning forward. She picked a little at her nails, an old habit she’d never bothered to get rid of. Mary was the one who spoke up, hugging Holly closer to her.

“That’s odd. Wouldn’t Sherlock have been a bit more – uptight?”

“I thought so. But then, he was that way around Tom, wasn’t he?”

Molly’s gaze focused the carpet. Tom had been a different situation though. Tom was something romantic, something personal. She had been sort of relieved—and admittedly, a degree frustrated—when he’d chosen to step back. It was only when the engagement had ended that he, in the haze of drugs, had shown his true callous regard for the situation and later on, in his own way, apologised. That ‘own way’, of course, involving the offer of a random cup of coffee and a mumbled apology from both sides followed by a shared smile. (Something she had noted in the past was that, around her, Sherlock Holmes was often a man of little words. It was when he used the big words, when he switched to the verbal diarrhoea that marked his deductive nature that she knew to be wary.)

This though. She was to move away from London, away from St. Bart’s, a place which had been pretty much her home for over 10 years. She’d expected at least a little conflict, a little tug-and-pull. She, most certainly, had not expected  _support_.

* * *

The peculiar state of Sherlock’s support stayed with her. He made no mention of the job, made no mention of her approaching departure. She had thought he would on some occasions, when they were walking down the corridor together and a passing colleague might give her a brief note of congratulations and he would stare, blink, open his lips before he shook his head, closed his mouth and carried on. That though, was all she got. A secondary congratulations and almost moments.

Quite truthfully, it was not enough. And was why, after two weeks of silence and two days before her departure, she was stood at the front door of 221b Baker Street late in the evening with her coat thrown over an old grubby t-shirt and baggy jogging bottoms and her finger pressed against the doorbell.

It opened on the second ring. Sherlock, curls tangled, pyjamas on and sleep in his expression, blinked on seeing her. He scanned her, his eyes settling on hers.

“Molly.”

“I know my move is a good career progression, and I’m very pleased that loads of people are genuinely happy for me, but you’re confusing me.” Not exactly the words she’d rehearsed in the taxi, but she was tired and her mind wasn’t exactly wired for coherency.

Sherlock’s right eyebrow quirked upwards. “I’m confusing you.”

“Yes.”

“How so?”

She had opened her mouth before she realised. She had no real idea of what to say.

“I just—” She huffed. “I kind of expected you wouldn’t like me going.”

“I don’t.”

She glanced upwards, and her eyes narrowed. If he wasn’t happy, if he didn’t like her going— “Why are you being so supportive then?”

“I’m being supportive?”

“Well, you haven’t exactly  _said_  anything, have you? Apart from congratulations, which I had to hear through John.”

“I didn’t say congratulations.”

“You didn’t?” She wasn’t sure why she sounded so surprised. She had known John was simply translating Sherlock Holmes. After all the years of working with the detective, it was a force of habit for him. She’d done it herself on some occasions.

“I said it was a good thing. Different meaning.”

She scrunched her nose. “Not really.”

“When I’m coming with you, it is.”

Shock is an odd thing. It makes people freeze on the spot, transform into numb statues with just one endless expression. It can make people move too much, speak too much. For Molly, at that point and those words, her shock made her laugh.

“You’re – you might have to explain that, a bit.”

“Anyone they send to Bart’s as your replacement is going to be useless. So when your promotion became common knowledge, I contacted the head of the department – they turned out to be a fan of mine. I’ll still be living here, in Baker Street, as the hospital isn’t far out of London and I can commute, if that’s what you’re—”

“I’m not worried about that,” Molly interjected. “But don’t you think you should’ve – I dunno –  _told_  me this? Just turning up to my new place of work out of the blue… more than slightly creepy, Sherlock.”

“Was planning to tell you when you departed,” Sherlock explained calmly.

“Like that would’ve been any better,” she muttered.

Sherlock gave a nod. “True. Anything I can do to make up for it?”

She glanced around the empty street, one she’d walked down many times, and back to the consulting detective who had, over her years at St. Bart’s served to infuriate her, intrigue her, annoy her, cheer her, and most of all, thrill her.

“Well, considering it’s pretty freezing out here… you could start by letting me into your flat,” she said with a raise of an eyebrow and a smile.

He easily stepped to one side. “Certainly.”


	175. Goose Chase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> penaltywaltz's third prompt: "Molly gets everyone to pretend they don't know it's Sherlock's birthday while she sends Sherlock on a wild goose chase through London on a case for the day. He had thought since they had begun dating she would make a big deal out of it and he gets more and more dejected as the day goes on, but it ends with a surprise party at the "murder" scene and an announcement he didn't see coming (preganacy, proposal from her...whatever you'd like)." Though I tweaked the prompt a little bit.

“Oh!” The tone of realisation in John Watson’s voice made Sherlock’s jaw tighten. “It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

Sherlock gave a curt clearing of his throat, and flexed his shoulders a little as he peered at the body in front of him. “Wonderful of you to notice,” he muttered dryly.

“Yeah – sorry mate, for forgetting. You understand, right?”

“Of course,” Sherlock bit out after a moment’s pause, his attention rather deliberately focused on the body. He only glanced up to notice John retrieving his phone from his pocket. With a slight grunt, he turned away.

John, eyeing the consulting detective, typed out a message.

_Looks like it’s working. Will keep you updated. – JW_

“John! I’ve found a lead!” The familiar call had him looking upwards to see Sherlock storming from the scene, coat tails flapping and collar flipped up. John rolled his eyes and as he followed Sherlock from the scene, he allowed himself a smirk.

“Here we go.”

* * *

John supposed that the most amusing thing about this whole  _scheme_  concocted by Molly was seeing Sherlock try and not act like a wounded puppy. Since he had got it into his head that a relationship wasn’t such a bad thing after all, it had been astounding to see an all new side to the previously distant consulting detective. Oh, he was still an arse, of course he was – a person didn’t, after all, suddenly change just because they started interacting with someone on a regular and far more intimate basis. Some people were born with specific traits, and aside from his brain, Sherlock Holmes had been born an arse. The point was that, with Molly, he worked to recognise when he had messed up and worked even harder to try and make it up to her. And from the smug look Sherlock so often had nowadays, Molly was more than happy to reward him when he did.

So it hadn’t really been a secret that the reason for Sherlock’s good behaviour to everyone in his life in the time up towards his birthday was that he had expected one hell of a reward. That was what made it all the more amusing, if John were honest. To see Sherlock’s expectations so expertly defied.

Sherlock grumbled and switched the slides under the microscope for a second time when John’s phone beeped.

“Still not making any progress?” John asked innocently as he scooped up his phone, though he received no reply. He grinned when he saw the message on his phone screen.

_Everything’s ready. Molly says to get him in a taxi. – MM_

“Sherlock…”

“Mm?”

“I just got a text – from Lestrade.”

Sherlock straightened up, eyeing John. “Lestrade?”

John gave a brisk nod. “Yeah. Apparently he’s found a possible lead at this location. Coming?”

Sherlock looked back to the microscope. He shrugged. “Might as well.”

* * *

The taxi just began to pull up to the entrance of the hotel when John looked at his friend and realised. He groaned. That unbearable smug look had returned to Sherlock’s face.

“Have to admit John—” he mused, going to open the passenger door, “you’re a good actor sometimes.”

John narrowed his eyes, his mouth falling open a little as he watched Sherlock step out of the taxi. 

“And how exactly did you know?”

* * *

“Lestrade never texts. I text him, but he always calls. Says it’s because he’s too busy but he’s just too lazy.”

She sighed, taking a sip of her water. The party was still in full swing, but the two of them had taken a break from the festivities and were now sat away from the guests and their attention fully on each other. Molly curled up tighter to Sherlock and dropped a kiss on his temple.

“Always the little things, isn’t it?”

“Mm. Still – I appreciate the effort,” Sherlock said with a smile, hugging her closer.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve already figured out my other surprise,” she said lightly. Sherlock frowned.

“Other surprise?”

Molly’s smile widened and she gently sank her fingers against his curls, stroking at his forehead with her thumb. “I’m pregnant.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. He gulped.

“That’s – actually – yes – one thing I  _did_  fail to figure out.”


	176. Strawberry Blonde.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from kelseyrare: "Teen!lock: Molly dyes her hair strawberry blonde and Sherlock doesn't recognize her from behind."

“Haven’t you got your own love life to obsess over?” Sherlock grumbled as he walked down the corridor. “Leave mine alone.”

“We just wanna see you happy, Sherlock – that’s all.” The way in which John bounced a little with every step showed Sherlock that it was not friendly concern that motivated John but the gleeful anticipation of acquiring gossip. 

“You’re a terrible liar. And I don’t fancy her. The whole thing is ridiculous. Don’t know where you got it from.”

“Oh, perhaps the fact that you couldn’t stop staring at her all the way through Maths last Friday?” John asked, an irritating tone of innocence in his voice. Sherlock glared as they rounded the corner of the corridor. A girl with blonde hair, short, walked slowly in front of them. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I did not stare at her.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“She caught you looking and you immediately made Greg swap places with you.”

“The sun was in my eyes.”

John aimed a withered look at him. “You swapped so you’d have your back to her, Sherlock. Even the teacher knew that.”

He huffed, hitching his bag higher onto his shoulder. “Okay. So what if I do fancy her? I’m not going to ask her out.”

“So you do fancy her?”

“I—”

Sherlock’s answer was cut short and he came to a rather sudden halt when the girl in front turned round. Molly’s warm brown eyes stared back at him, a smile on her lips.

“Hi Sherlock.” He felt his cheeks bloom and prickle with heat. Molly however, was calm. She stepped forward, smiling. “Would you like to go out sometime? This weekend’s good for me.”

He swallowed. 

“That – that’d be fine.” He shifted his weight and cleared his throat, looking up at her. He pointed briefly to her head. “And you… you’ve changed your hair?”

Her smile widened. “Mm-hm. Fancied a change.”

“It looks good.”


	177. Beer. (Dirty Dancing AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little follow-up to "Oh, Lover Boy!" Not a prompt fill, but a gift for thewinterspy.

Water lapped underneath the bridge, and Sherlock let out a breath, coming to a stop. He looked behind him, seeing the main house and sighed. The announcement of ‘foxtrot hour’ had been the last straw. Making his excuses, he’d stood out of his chair and departed. He’d broken into a run as soon as his feet touched the grass and the door had closed behind him. Up the short hill he’d climbed, towards the bridge, towards somewhere no-one would see him. His throat was dry, his breath sharp as he leaned against the bridge and ran his fingers against his hair.

A voice made him turn his head. Walking up the leafy lane towards the bridge, he was first met with the sight of three crates of beer. Beyond that, blonde hair and blue eyes.

“Mary, isn’t it?” he asked, tilting his head. Mary huffed.

“Sherlock Holmes, right? Yeah – heard some of the staff complaining about you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Nice to know I’ve gained a reputation.”

“Didn’t take you long,” Mary replied with a smile. “Anyway, you shouldn’t be here. Well, up there.”

She pointed, and Sherlock obediently turned his head, looking upwards to find a large cabin. Music, muffled, sounded from beyond the closed doors. The corners of his mouth lilted with a grin. He glanced back towards her, eyeing the crates of beer.

“Some sort of party going on?”

Mary laughed. “Better than anything happening down at the main house, that’s for sure.”

Sherlock’s grin widened. It didn’t exactly follow the template of a usual invitation, but it was enough. He began to move towards the hill, glancing at Mary over his shoulder. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“You’d better not,” Mary said, falling into step with him. “And take one of these crates while you’re at it.”

Sherlock shrugged and grabbed the top crate from Mary’s arms. It was a worthy enough sacrifice. Together, they walked the way up towards the cabin. The lights of the main house faded and the sound of the music grew. Guitar led, fast tempo. Far from the slow, piano-focused waltzes that plagued the other parts of the resort. 

Approaching the doors of the cabin, Mary reached forward with her elbow and pressed down on the handle, pushing at the door with her toe and letting it swing open. 

A haze of smoke, aching with the scent of sweat and summer heat, hid them from view for a minuscule moment. He stepped forward, following Mary into the room, and the haze cleared. Bodies, close together, moving against one another in time to the music. Sherlock swallowed, his throat almost aching from the sweet taste of the smoke. He tucked back a smile. How Mycroft would disapprove of him being here.

Sherlock felt Mary’s hands cover his own, and blinked. He turned his head. Mary, eyebrow raised, glanced downwards towards the crate still in his hands.

“Oh.” He relinquished his hold of the crate and Mary deposited it at the side of the door. She beckoned for him to follow, and began to move through the crowd. Sherlock edged past the dancers.

He found Mary settled on a lumpen sofa, white material spilling out from underneath the scratched brown leather. Beside her was a man, dark blonde with an already open beer in his hand. Sherlock noted the almost empty crate tucked in at the side of the sofa.

“This is Sherlock Holmes, John,” Mary explained with a grin. “The one you were complaining about.”

“Oh yeah.” John grinned and raised to his feet, sticking out a hand in greeting. “Name’s John Watson.”

Sherlock shook his hand, but said nothing. John sat back down beside Mary, and gestured towards the main space of the cabin. Sherlock turned away and watched the dancers. Hands clasped at thighs, backs arched, arms holding their partner close, hips grinding. A far cry from the one two, one two, side step and together of his youth. Behind him, Mary and John’s conversation continued.

“How do you think they’d react to stuff like this down in the main house?”

Mary giggled. “No, I don’t imagine it would go down too well!”

Sherlock looked towards the centre of the dance floor. Someone had laughed, loud enough for the whole room to hear. The culprit, it turned out, was a woman. She was small in height, hair honey brown, falling down her shoulders to dangle at the small of her back. It moved with her, with every movement she made, be it a turn or a simple movement of the shoulder. Her vest, white, was tied just underneath her breasts. A sheen of sweat covered her skin. Her companion, a male, grinned and traced his arm around her waist, urging her closer toward. His fingers splayed out against her stomach and her hand held his side. She smiled, strands of her hair falling over her face, moving her hips against his, and Sherlock was struck with the notion that he much rather wanted to  _be_  the man in question.

“They almost look like a couple, don’t they?”

“What?” He turned his head to find Mary stood beside him, and a smile on her lips.

“Her and Oscar,” Mary replied, pointing towards the woman and her companion. “You’d think they were together.”

Sherlock kept his focus on the woman. Her smile was wide as she turned and Oscar clasped at her waist, briefly dropping to his knees and hugging at her waist. The woman laughed, touching at his chin with her finger and tilting an eyebrow as she guided him upwards. 

Sherlock swallowed. “And they’re not.”

“Nope,” Mary said with one of those knowing smiles that so often made him want to roll his eyes. She waved, catching the attention of Oscar and the woman. Seeing Mary, the woman murmured something to him and jogged over. She came to a stop in front of them, ruffling at her hair.

“Mary, hi.” Her smile fell when she looked at Sherlock. “Who’s this?”

“Sherlock Holmes. Guest,” Mary said.

Words rolled around his tongue,  _hello_  and  _how are you_  and  _nice to meet you_. All the standard greetings. Words that had been ingrained into him since he was a child.

“I… carried some beer.” He frowned. Every word felt foreign to him, as if he’d never said them before.

“Right.” The woman spoke slowly, her cheeks twitching with a smile and her eyes flicking over his form. “Name’s Molly Hooper. I’ll, uh, see you around maybe?”

Sherlock sighed.  _I carried some beer._  It was one way to make a first impression.


	178. Dose of Comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt of: "Sherlock and Molly become engaged, however, their relationship was not the most known among their friends and collegues. They end up having to deal with people not being the most congratulatory to the couple (marrying Sherlock Holmes?! Heartbreak waiting to happen.) Ensue: Sherlock & Molly having hurt feelings and having a much needed cuddle." Again, this is quite short.

The door to the kitchen bangs open and her coat and scarf are thrown onto the chair opposite and she grumbles as she sets about making her coffee. Sherlock, sat at the table, holds his newspaper in his hands and watches her. It takes him less than a minute, before the kettle has even boiled, to stand up and walk over to her and wrap his arms around her waist. She sinks into his touch with a sigh, her eyes closing and her fingers instinctively clasp around his arms, stroking at his skin.

“More comments I suppose.” He kisses her neck.

“From Davidson. Should’ve expected it, he’s always had this stupid thing for me, always hovered over me—” She lets her sentence trail off, and turns in his arms. Her back is against the worktop, her arms around his neck. She kisses him and nuzzles her head against his chest. He smiles and reaches up, stroking at her hair.

“Mine was from Dimmock,” he confesses against her hair, dropping a kiss on her cheek. “Nothing said – just one of those stupid scoffs.”

“I hate those,” Molly mumbles and the fact that they have  _categories_  is rather ludicrous. He holds her closer. She sighs softly.

“Does it hurt you?”

“A little.”

“Do you care?”

“Not at all.”

He frowns, though when he looks to her, he can’t help but smile. “You have to care a bit for it to hurt, surely.”

“I care about you,” she says, hauling herself up to kiss at the tip of his nose. She grins as she pulls away. “Does that do you?”

“Oh, I already knew that,” he says with a casual shrug and a returning grin. He kisses her again, and suddenly, the world doesn’t matter so much.


	179. Domestic Realisation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A second prompt from kelseyrare: "The first time Sherlock realizes that he has entered a domestic relationship with Molly Hooper he was... flabbergasted." Short fluffy drabble.

When it happens, she is sitting on top of his kitchen worktop, wearing her shirt and her pyjama bottoms (short, made of cotton with some cat pattern on them), and looking for all the world like she belongs there.

He is immediately terrified; then, oddly, relieved. He frowns.  _Relieved?_  he thinks. Why should he be relieved? It has only been a few weeks, perhaps a couple of months, that he and Molly Hooper have been what John and Lestrade and Mary and Mrs Hudson would call ‘boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend’. He’s always disliked, to some extent, romantic terminology. It’s always seemed too clumsy, too much of a leap from merely ‘friendship’.

“Thinking again?”

Her ankles are crossed together, her legs gently swinging in time to some tune in her head. She tucks back a strand of her hair and he has a maddening thought to get up and muss it. Not kiss her, or cart her off to their—his, hers, their it doesn’t matter, in his mind the words are all interchangeable—bedroom but simply to feel her against him. To card his fingers through her hair, and see her scrunch her nose. (Which is such a sentimental thought that he hurriedly clears his throat, at which she tilts her head a little.)

“No, simply…” He stops, realising that, well, he has no way to describe what he is feeling. His eyebrows knit together. He looks at her. “Did you ever – imagine this?”

She raises an eyebrow, then shifts. Her eyes narrow, that slight wrinkle of confusion appearing between her brows. He holds her gaze and somehow, quite suddenly, her whole face relaxes into a burst of laughter. She hops down from the worktop and approaches him and throws her arms around his neck and kisses him. She presses her forehead to his, her fingers lightly tracing against his nape and twirling against his curls.

“Of course I did. I love you.” And she looks at him with such brightness, such light, such  _openness_ , that he feels no hesitation in repeating the sentiment back to her.


	180. The Boyfriend Thing. (University!lock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt of: "Unilock Molly and Sherlock are bffs and they basically do everything together but they're both totally in love with each other and so fluffiness ensues". This was based off a headcanon I have about University!Sherlolly, which is that they sometimes used one another to get out of awkward situations.

There’s the smell of extinguished cigarettes in the air, the ashtray filled with white and orange, tiny embers glowing. His mouth feels dry from alcohol (should’ve followed advice, but he’s damned if he admits it) and she falls into the green leather space beside him.

She gesticulates as she talks, something she only does when she’s panicked and needs his help. But the music— it’s heavy, he has to read her lips. Small, thin, words quicker than he can keep up with his alcohol-soaked mind. He only picks up snatches.  _Help_  –  _dick_  –  _please_. Her eyebrows are knitted together, but relax into a sigh when she realises. She takes his hand and he hauls himself up, following her as she walks through the crowd, across the flocked patterned carpet that vomit could only serve to improve, with her head ducked down. In a quieter corner, she stops.

“I need your help. I was coming out of the bathroom and this utter –  _dick_  comes up and leers over me. Like, talking about how he would ‘ruin’ me…” She shudders. “So I kind of need you to do the boyfriend thing.”

The boyfriend thing. For a moment, one mad moment, his brain swims with the image of scooping her up and kissing her (it’s one way) but that’s the alcohol. He wipes sleep from his eyes and tries not to sway against her. The boyfriend thing. That he can do.

“C’mon Sherlock, please – oh Jesus no, he’s coming over,  _please_ —”

He holds her close. The movement beyond known to him, more instinctive than anything else. He kisses the top of her hair, his bottom lip tracing against the warm skin of her forehead. (She always becomes flushed when she’s in tight spaces like this.) She breathes a sigh against his chest. His hand curves tighter over her shoulder, her warmth soaking his palms and his fingertips. He shifts his gaze minutely. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees some beer gut of a person scoff at the sight of them and lumber off in some other direction.

“Wanna go home?” An innocuous question, and neither of them are bothering to leave their current position. She gives a nod.

“Yeah.” She breathes through her nose, and steps back. “Would be good. Just one more drink though.”

* * *

“Whoop!” She slips on a wet drain cover and falls against him with a giggle. He smiles, catching her with ease. His hands come up to her shoulders, righting her.

“You’re more drunk than you think.”

“Mm – probably,” she mumbles, apparently seeing no point in arguing. They’re near to her flat anyway. Just two doors to go. She runs her fingers against her hair. After having it short for so long, she’s decided to grow it out. He likes it. “Thank you, by the way. For helping me with that pervert dude.”

Sherlock swallows back a chuckle. She probably thinks every word coming from her mouth is debonair and elegant. “You’re welcome.”

Molly adjusts his coat that rests on her shoulders (she was cold, and he’s more charitable when he’s got a few drinks inside him) and lets it slip from her, exposing her skin to him. He shakes his head. No-one ever put significance on a shoulder. Must be the alcohol.

“And thanks – again – for walking me. Home.” She steps forward and presses the coat into his hands. He smiles, lips parting to say something, but she reaches up on her tiptoes and their mouths somehow come together.

In his fuzzy state, in her fuzzy state, they don’t really register it. They just lazily move their mouths together briefly, as if it’s nothing at all, before she clumsily breaks away.

“Goo’night,” she mumbles, and she turns and opens the door. She eyes him as she steps inside, and he holds up a hand in goodbye. She giggles and lets her gaze drop, pushing the door closed. The glossy, chipped black paint and the silver numbers reflect the orange of the street lamp.

He turns away. Pushes open the iron gate which always squeaks. Heads down the pavement. The boyfriend thing, he can do that easily. But being one. His mouth tilts with a smile as he shrugs on his coat. That still needs a bit more time.


	181. The Honourable Miss Hooper. (Part 1) (1920s!Sherlolly)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries on Netflix and though I wouldn’t say this universe is necessarily an AU of the show itself, it is heavily inspired by its tone. The basic premise is that it’s the 1920s, Molly Hooper is a private detective, Sherlock is a consulting detective, they compete/not so reluctantly work with each other over/on cases and they share a history which they both like to bring up in an attempt to make the other flustered.

It was not often that Molly Hooper, private detective, found herself in an awkward social situation. At any party, she was the life of it. She kept conversation and champagne flowing in equal amounts, the jazz hot and her dancing impeccable, sure-footed with even the clumsiest of gentlemen. She never let a guest leave her parties without a smile on their face and a companion on their arms. (Though if a male guest happened to get a little hands-on in the duration of a party, then she always made sure to send him home with nothing more than a bottle of champagne and his driver.)

Molly sighed and adjusted her cloche. Red velvet, it had been made for her by the finest of milliners. People were always the most indulgent when it came to the festive season. The toe of her shoe pressed against the edge of the wooden crate and she touched at the damp wall brick. The London summer air was cool, and the alleyway was marvellously empty. It was quiet, save for the distant sound of jazz and the rumble of her car. No doubt Toby was waiting near it, sneaking a ciggy or perhaps two. She hoped he’d keep one for her when she was done with this business. Molly glanced upwards. It was only a short jump up onto the ladder, thankfully. All she had to do was get up the ladder, climb up it onto the fire escape before a quick shimmy through the flat window. Molly retrieved her tube from her coat pocket and deftly refreshed her lipstick. She took a preparatory breath and leaned forward a little, judging the angle. With a prayer and a hope, she pushed off the balls of her feet and jumped. Arms thrown forward, she felt her palms hit the ladder and—

“Horsefeathers.” Instead of grabbing the targeted fifth rail, her hands had grabbed onto the second and now she was a sitting duck. Well, more a hanging duck. Giving a rather unladylike grunt that would’ve made her aunt widen her eyes in shock, Molly reached up and gripped at the third rail and little by little began to pull herself up.

“Didn’t take you for an owl, Miss Hooper.”

Her hands locked around the third ladder rail, Molly paused. Her jaw tightened into a frown and her features sunk into a glower.  _Applesauce_. Her pristine social record was apparently about to be blemished. Reluctantly, she turned her head to glance over her shoulder. He stood in the shadows, his well-fitted suit a cool grey and as ever, no tie. Molly shifted against the ladder in a slight defiance. His shoes, at least, were well-polished. He stepped forward, tilting his head up to look at her.

“Care to tell me what a girl like you is doing there?” His mouth glinted with a smile.

“None of your beeswax,” she muttered and she hauled herself up towards the fourth rail. Raising her voice, she looked back to him and gave him one of her most dazzling smiles. “Nothing for you to worry about, just a – what are you doing?!”

Her voice became a squeak as he stepped forward and positioned himself underneath her, his long fingers holding her ankles in place against his shoulders. He grinned up at her.

“Your Uncle Monty wouldn’t be too happy if I discovered his beloved niece hanging from a fire escape and walked off without offering help – now would he?”

“He’d actually perfectly understand,” Molly called down. She made herself busy with her attempt to grip at the yearned for fifth rail. Her arms were shaking a little with the effort. “He’s been aware of my activities for quite a while now and is perfectly happy about it – oof – he says I’m doing London a service. Now, Mr Holmes, if you wouldn’t mind letting go, I’m going to –  _argh!_ ”

Her muscles apparently refusing to work in tandem with her determination, it all happened in one swift minute and she knew that later on, when she would come to recall the incident to Sally, she’d have little to no explanation for how she ended up falling backwards and into Sherlock Holmes’ waiting arms. It involved a slight misstep, heels slipping against metal, a quick descent and even quicker thinking, she knew that much. Her arm wrapped around his shoulders, with his arms holding her like a groom would a bride, she breathed hard for a few moments.

He tilted up an eyebrow and his grin widened. “This does take me back.”

“Mr Holmes—” Breathing through her nose, she delicately cleared her throat and returned his satirical smile with one of her own. “Kindly put me down.”

He obeyed, rather miraculously. She brushed herself down, examining her coat and dress. Thankfully, nothing was damaged. Though the toe on her left shoe was rather badly scuffed.

“And just where you attempting to get to?” he asked, craning his neck up towards the fire escape and the hanging ladder.

“Flat 21,” Molly answered, and he hummed thoughtfully in reply.

“What a coincidence. I was going there too.”

“Not much of a coincidence – the flat belongs to the victim’s supposed ‘jealous lover’. You were hoping to discover something that linked him to the victim.” Molly glanced about the dingy alleyway and back to Sherlock. “Not a difficult observation.”

“Not difficult at all,” he said with ease. Reaching up, he grabbed at the ladder and with one strong tug, pulled it down towards the rain-soaked ground. The dewy scent was still present. It hadn’t been long since it had stopped. An hour, maybe. Perhaps a bit longer. “Now, you should head back to your car. I’m sure Toby’s finished his cigarette by now.”

“And what kind of detective would I be if I left before following up on a potential lead?” Molly asked primly. “Excuse me, Mr Holmes.”

Easing her way past him, Molly took a tight hold of the ladder and stepped onto the first rail and began her ascent. Squirreling through the entrance at the top, she climbed onto the balcony of the fire escape and moved towards the window. Toby’s earlier report echoed in her head.  _Scoped it out for you miss_ , he’d said with a wide yawn.  _It’s just a climb up the fire escape at the back then the second window in front of you._ Passing the first window, where the lights in the room revealed an old dear asleep in a floral armchair, she crouched in front of the second window. Pitch black inside the flat; it was hard to make anything out that was of worth. Molly tried the window, but the mechanism refused to budge. Reaching up and removing the pin of her hat, Molly set about working at the lock. She looked up when she saw his shoes appear in her eye line. His eyes, blue even in this light, connected with hers as he crouched down beside her. She was pleased to see that he took great care not to damage his clothing. That was one sign of a gentleman he possessed at least.

“Picking the lock won’t work, Miss Hooper.” Pity he didn’t possess any of the other signs. Molly focused on her task.

“And what exactly would you suggest?” she asked drily as the lock pinged open. She set about opening the window and looked back to him. “A rock through the window? How very male of you.”

His mouth, though sunken into frown, twitched with a smile. Sliding the window open, Molly replaced the pin and bent her head as she slipped inside the window. Sherlock followed her suit, and together, they stood in the pitch darkness. The moonlight was their aid, throwing bluish light against a chair, an extinguished fireplace, a plant pot and an antique writing desk. Thin curtains billowed out slightly behind them. Molly was almost prepared to admire the quality of the furnishings, but the memory that they belonged to a jealous lover and potential murderer ceased those kinds of thoughts.

Heading towards the writing desk, Sherlock following in her wake, Molly began to rifle through the drawers. Papers, folded and unfolded, new and old, crumpled and stained, passed through her fingers. She examined each one, her eyes passing over bills and peering at letters which carried faded brown ink and words like ‘love’, ‘yours’, ‘passionate’.

“Doesn’t sound like a jealous lover to me,” Sherlock murmured beside her, glancing over her shoulder at the letter in her hand. “More like a struggling poet.”

“Even poets can be jealous,” Molly pointed out, heading towards the window. She held the letter against the moonlight, eyes narrowing as she read. “They pretty much invented the concept.”

The door slamming open and the light flicking on and the violent call of ‘hands up’ had Molly jumping, blinking and obeying in quick succession. The letter fluttered to the floor. An elderly woman stood in front of them with a pistol in her hand—the same old dear who had been asleep in the other flat, Molly realised. Or indeed, the _same_  flat. Just a different room. Sherlock, his hands in the air, moved backwards towards Molly’s left side at the woman’s request.

“So…” Molly let out a breath. “Not a lead after all. Bugger.”


	182. The Honourable Miss Hooper. (Part 2) (1920s!Sherlolly)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beantheshoeelf asked on Tumblr: "I absolutely adore the Honourable Miss Hooper!!! If you feel like continuing with it, I would love to see Molly waltz into the police station and flirtatiously bribe Sherlock with food for inclusion on a particularly interesting case he won't let her in on. Of course he won't at first, because Sherlock is Sherlock, but hey, playing with games with Molly is what he's best at, am I right?" I was more than happy to do a second part to The Honourable Miss Hooper.

Hurrying into the kitchen and seeing Molly with an apron tied around her waist and a mess adorning the counter in front of her, Sally came to an immediate stop. Molly Hooper, though she did many things and was an accomplished young lady, did  _not_  bake. The deflated, rather lacklustre, flan in front of her was an unfortunate indicator.

Sally’s mouth twitched with a laugh as she stepped forward. “What are you doing?”

“Baking,” Molly said with familiar brightness, though she frowned, lips pursed, when she looked back at the flan. “It’s not going…  _exactly_  to plan.”

Sally rolled her eyes and stepped back from the kitchen into the living room. Glancing into the mirror, she straightened her fascinator. “Why don’t you ask Kate to do it? She’d be happy to.”

“That would rather ruin the point of it,” Molly replied. Sally rolled her eyes briefly. Though Molly was a fun girl, she could at times make not the damnedest bit of sense.

“How would it?” Sally asked, heading back into the kitchen. The deflated flan peeked out from the lip of the bin and as she spoke, Molly made herself busy collecting together ingredients for her next attempt.

“My aunt’s always banging on about how the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach – and though I know that most of her advice is pretty useless—”

“So why would you listen to it now?” Sally said with a sigh and she bent down to adjust her skirts.

“You remember the murder I told you about? The one down at the docks. It was in this morning’s newspaper. I went down there, to see if I could garner any clues – only to be told by Lestrade that he’s already gone and given the case to Mr Holmes. And I thought if I could make him something, then he might let me have a little peek at the case notes.”

Sally stared at her friend, blinked and sighed. Whatever Molly did (even if included baking a flan for the most flat tyre of a man Sally had ever encountered), it was her business and hers alone. “Fine – now can you just check for me – no ladders?”

Molly scanned Sally’s legs as she turned. “Left leg – just above your ankle.”

“Oh balderdash,” Sally muttered and she ran off towards her bedroom to hear, while she was hunting for a new pair of stockings, the confused shriek of their maid and Molly’s calming voice providing a sincere apology.

* * *

Lestrade was used to odd sights. He was used to seeing the regular drunkard singing ‘Danny Boy’ over and over again, to hearing arguments between hapless criminals. That was all in a day’s work. What was not was the sight of a dolled up Molly Hooper in a suit walking straight towards the constable’s desk. With her, she carried a winning smile on her lips and in her hands, what appeared to be a cake and a cake knife.

“Afternoon Greg!” she said lightly, coming to a stop at the desk. “Mr Holmes is in, I assume.”

“Err – yeah – my office. Though I don’t think—”

“Excellent.” Without hesitation, she pushed through the half-doors and passed the constable’s desk. Her hips swayed a little as she weaved her way through the desks of the police station, dispensing thanks and graciousness on her way. Lestrade cleared his throat and glanced back to the constable who, being so young, had witnessed the woman’s entrance with an increasingly dropped open mouth. Lestrade sighed.

“Back to work, lad.”

Clearing his throat, the constable soon closed his mouth and nodded once.

“Yes sir.”

* * *

Earth green walls with folders and filing cabinets and a musky scent of damp mixed with the scent of a hundred old cigarettes, Lestrade’s office wasn’t the best place for social visits or gift-giving.

He was sat at Lestrade’s desk, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on the surface. Various papers and notes were scattered across the surface, but the most important were pinned to the wall, red string connecting them all into one large map. When she entered, he was reading a newspaper. That immediately came down when he heard the door close. He received her entrance with not the gentlemanly invitation to sit down but a roll of the eyes.

“No.”

Molly only brushed a piece of dust from the shoulder of her suit jacket and moved forward. Dispensing the cake at his side, she moved around to the other side of the desk and drew out a cigarette and a lighter. Tucking it between her lips, she lit it and bumped at his feet with her hip. Taking her message with a sigh, he straightened up and swung his legs off the desk. She smiled gratefully and perched herself upon the wooden surface, tucking her feet against the chair.

He eyed the cake.

“A gift,” she answered, smoking.

“A bribe,” he retorted.

“A bit of both.” Reaching across for it, she took up the cake knife and cut out a slice. Her maid, after seeing the mess Molly had made of the kitchen, had done a wonderful job of concocting a cake of the most sinfully dark chocolate, sprinkled with the sweet taste of icing sugar. Molly offered out the slice to him with a tilt of her head. “Care to try some?”

He stared at her. The smirk with which he had received her did not abate. Indeed, it widened slightly. Folding his hands over his stomach, he leaned back in the chair.

“Lestrade assigned the case to me.”

“Oh, don’t be so petulant,” Molly said, removing her feet from the chair. “Now come on – my maid put a lot of effort into this cake. She’ll be disappointed if I report back and tell her it was refused.”

He pressed his lips together and rolled his head upwards to look at her fully in the eyes. “I’m not hungry.”

“You should be. You’ve been hard at work,” Molly said idly, tracing her gaze up towards the board above his head, all red string and maps and photographs and juicy leads. He jumped to his feet, blocking her view and his brow knitted together in a frown.

Dropping her gaze, Molly broke off a bit of the cake with a hum.

“The newspapers say the man was murdered at the docks, and that the police suspect he was a sailor on leave. But I see you’re investigating the factory nearby. And there were markings on the man’s body that suggest he was dragged—”

“For nearly a quarter of a mile,” Sherlock finished. His frown, though still present, lessened slightly with the presence of a smile. “You’re a quick reader, Miss Hooper.”

“Thank you.” Molly looked back up at him. She popped the portion of cake into her mouth and delicately chewed, lips thinning in thought. She swallowed it back and took up another bite-sized portion of the slice. “I’m guessing the man worked at the factory. Whoever killed him must’ve done the deed there – then they must’ve dragged him towards the docks in an attempt to make it look like a brawl between sailors gone wrong.

“The problem comes with the fact that the factory specialised in making dog food,” he said quickly, that rapid-fire delivery beyond familiar to her now. She watched him turn towards the board, his eyes drinking in every scrap of paper he had pinned up there. “So what would necessitate the murder of a factory worker, especially when he worked for a company that specialises in dog food? And what would necessitate the cover-up? The answer to that, obviously, is that the company isn’t the most legitimate. Involved with the mob would be likely.”

“Your problem comes in that no-one is willing to talk,” Molly said quietly, her attention now on the board.

“Essentially.” Sherlock breathed through his nose, turning back to her. His preoccupation, as he studied her innocent looks, faded into something all the less serious. What appeared to be a laugh emanated from his lips. “It’s all quite far from Uncle Monty’s parlour for you, isn’t it Miss Hooper?”

“Exactly why I like it,” she said simply. She again offered the slice, her finger and thumb holding it out to him. “Are you sure you don’t want to try a bit?”

His eyes remained on her, crystalline mirth within them, and they continued to remain on her even as he bent his head to take a bite. Molly saw Sherlock’s eyes flick upwards and she turned her head when she heard the door open behind her. Lestrade stood in the doorway. Seeing them, his eyebrows rose then crinkled into an expression of hesitant confusion.

“Am I – interrupting something?”


	183. An Unconventional Escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "Hello! Bit of a weird prompt. Could you maybe write something with Sherlock asking Molly to pass his phone (which happened to be in his pockets) because his arms are occupied for some reason? Thanks!" So I came up with the following story. I'd like to personally apologise now, for my brain.

It was someone’s, some religious deity’s, idea of a (crude) joke. Sherlock tilted his head back, straining to see the camera he’d spotted on the way in. Located high in the corner, the screen was cracked and dusty. Broken, disused, not yet repaired. Whoever owed this place clearly didn’t place much value on building maintenance. Molly, clearing her throat, shifted against his lap. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed red and her mouth was turned down into a scowl.

It was only meant to be an investigation into a robbery. Since—  _Magnussen_ , she hadn’t been as eager to join him on cases as before. He’d mildly suggested that perhaps it was her broken engagement that had been the cause, but a glare from Mary and a raised eyebrow dashed that idea. 

Admittedly, it had taken him some time to invite her out on this particular case. Whenever he tried to see her, she seemed unfortunately not to be in either the lab or her office. He had asked John or Mary if they would like to assist, but they were tied up with work or some such trivial thing and couldn’t attend. In the end, it had taken him visiting her flat for him to be able to speak to her. She’d not been too happy about him picking the lock, of course, and it was only after he’d agreed not to do such a thing anymore that she muttered her agreement to help.

The beginning of the evening had been standard enough. They drove up in her car—older cars never got as much notice as newer, he’d said to her which had earned him another quick glare—and watched the place in silence. He expected her silence to be stoic and stiff, but she’d been remarkably focused on the case, never looking once at him but her eyes zeroed in on the building’s entrance. The building in question was an industrial building, the headquarters of a delivery van service, and where the suspect had apparently hidden themselves according to one nervous-looking informant. It was only when the building was empty of its workers that they left the car. It had taken one small break-in and one bigger, more sudden confrontation for them to end up in this position.

Her silence now, was most certainly stoic. Instead of focusing on one particular area, her head twitched and turned every which way.

“Molly,” he grunted at the fifth turning of her head. She didn’t reply. He repeated her name, firmer.

“I’m sorry Sherlock,” she still avoided looking at him, “but I’m not exactly in the mood to talk to you.”

He sighed. “I didn’t tell him to tie us up like this.”

“No, he just thought it would be funny.”

 _Got a girlfriend then?_  Their captor, a man whose looks could only be favourably compared to a squashed tomato, had leered a laugh as he tied the rope around Molly’s wrists and shoved her forward.  _I’ll give you two some quality time._ Sherlock sometimes hated his own gender.

“My phone,” he said, his voice a hiss. “I need you to get it.”

Molly did not obey but her frown deepened. “You’ve – you’ve had your phone…  _all this time_?”

“Yes, well.” Sherlock huffed and shifted underneath her. “While our captor has a great sense of humour, his security measures? Not the best. I’d bet most of the cameras in here are broken. If not all.”

“So we could’ve escaped much sooner? And we’ve been here about—” 

“Twenty minutes,” Sherlock answered.

“Right. The good news just keeps coming.” She let out a breath, the strands of her hair puffing out against the force of it.

“Yes, I’m an arse – now shut up and  _help_ ,” Sherlock snapped. Molly was angry, yes, entirely understandable, but there was no need to argue in the midst of an escape attempt.

She flicked her hair over her shoulder. Her jaw tightened, as if she were considering extending the argument. She sighed, her shoulders sinking. “What do you need?”

“You – to fetch the phone from my pocket.”

She looked at him, blinked, and shrugged. “I’m tied up, Sherlock. Like you.”

“Your lower half isn’t.”

“Pardon?”

“Meaning you’ve more mobility than I do, at the moment. And your wrists – they’re slender.” He tilted his head in a backwards nod as he spoke. “So slide them out from the ropes and get my phone from my jacket pocket.”

What followed his instruction was a lot of grunting from Molly Hooper, as well as shifting, panting and reaching before she finally settled back against his lap and shook her head.

“Can’t do it. Apparently our captor is good with his knots.”

Sherlock’s lips pursed in thought. 

“Hm.” He looked up at her. “How bendy are you?”

Her eyebrows shot upwards. “You – are you seriously suggesting I pick your phone out of your jacket pocket with my mouth? Can’t we just – I dunno – try and tip the chair over?”

Sherlock shook his head. “That would create too much noise. And limit our mobility even more.”

“I’d rather create too much noise,” Molly murmured before she rose her voice a little. “Lean back. I can’t – basically you’re too close.”

Sherlock obeyed, his eyes still on Molly as she bent her head. Nudging at the base of his pocket with her nose, she slowly and carefully edged the phone upwards until the tip of it peeked out.

“Stop fidgeting.” Her words were muffled against his chest. Sherlock cleared his throat and shifted.

“I’m not moving.”

Brown eyes flicked up to meet his. “You just did.”

“I’m not moving  _anymore_.”

“Please – shut up.”

She carried on with her task, edging the phone further and further up out of the pocket. When it was almost halfway out, she darted upwards and pressed her mouth to the top of the phone, grabbing it. She eyed him with a severe look as her upper lip curved over the top of the phone to grip it and she straightened up. Sherlock, clearing his throat, straightened up.

“So what do we do now?” she asked, words just about audible. Sherlock frowned deeper at her, his mouth turning into a grimace. He twisted slightly, tilting his head.

“Give me just a moment—” With a triumphant sigh, he brought up his left hand and snatched the phone from Molly’s mouth. 

So busy was he with texting Lestrade for back up, he didn’t notice Molly’s expression until he looked back to her.

“Texted Lestrade,” he said. “Should be here in about ten minutes.”

“Okay.” Molly swallowed. “Sherlock – one tiny question.”

“Mm-hm?”

“How long have you had that hand free?”

“Just now,” he said honestly. “I mean, I have been working on it for the last twenty minutes or so—”

He stopped when he saw Molly’s head dart forward. Forehead pressed hard against his, her brown eyes sparked with fury.

“I have performed nearly 500 autopsies, Sherlock Holmes. And if you do not help me out of these ropes right now, I can promise you that the next autopsy I perform will be  _yours_.”

Sherlock gulped. Taking a hold of her arms with both of his hands, he lifted her arms over his shoulders, settling her bound hands in her lap. Obediently, he got to work.


	184. Topless. (University!lock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "You way of writing drunk!lock in uni is my fave. So could you please do one where they're playing a drinking game/strip poker or Uno or something?"

He’d say that there had been a logical series of events that ended up with him topless in Molly Hooper’s flat, but alcohol often makes logic fly out of the window. Perhaps if whisky hadn’t been involved, he wouldn’t be in this mess.

He lifts his gaze up from his cards (his hand is a bad one, all he has in his arsenal is to hope hers is worse) and stares at her. Her hair is down, the tendrils resting against her chest just above the cherry print bra she wears. The bottle of whisky that really is the culprit for this whole thing taking place is beside her. 

She takes irregular gulps from it, her fingers wrapped around the neck of it and the expanse of her neck visible whenever she tips her head back to catch the deep golden liquid. Her shirt and sweater lie in a crumpled heap beside her. So far, they’re even.

That’s likely to change, if the smile on her face is anything to go for. With a smirk, she reaches forward and presses her cards down on the coffee table. Their bounty—a pack of cigarettes, three crumpled fivers and a chocolate bar—is gathered together in the middle of the cheap wooden monstrosity. Sherlock’s mouth tilts into a smile. She’d been eyeing that chocolate bar. He says as such.

Her grin falls. She eyes him as she speaks. “So?”

“So  _this_ ,” he says (not his most witty retort, admittedly) and he presses his hand down. She frowns at his cards, at him, at the bounty and finally sighs.

“Bra next I’spose,” she mumbles and she begins to reach around. He swallows when the cherry print joins the pink cream stripe of her sweater and the crisp white of her shirt. They’re small, her breasts. In proportion. It’d look odd if her breasts were bigger. The fact she tries to make them so is something he’s (often, now he thinks about it) thought of as ludicrous. 

He hopes he can blame the flush on his chest and in his cheeks on the heat of the room.

She laughs. “They’re just breasts Sherlock.”

Apparently he can’t. He swallows again, mouth dry and takes up the cards shuffling.

“Yes, of course. Too small anyway.”

She scoffs. “Might say the same about you.”

Against his better judgement, he laughs.


	185. It Takes an Intern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt of "Molly finally has enough after Sherlock fake asks her for a date (she thought it was real), that ended up using her as bait for a case. Becomes terribly professional and doesn't give him the time of the day outside lab/morgue. He of course becomes desperate and tries to win her back at all costs, people at Barts surprised at how clingy and lovesick he looks. Happy ending or not, it's your choice."

“Enough.” It’s raining when she says it, outside St. Bart’s. She sighs and ducks underneath the entrance’s canopy. He follows, hair damp as hers and raindrops clinging to his Belstaff.

“What do you mean,” he asks, and his voice is clipped, “ _enough_?”

She folds her arms over her chest, and shrugs.

“Dunno. No, wait—” She mock pauses, frowning and tilting her head. “Maybe you using me as bait has something to do with it?”

With a glower, she storms back inside, the doors sliding open with ease and Sherlock knows he’s blown it. 

* * *

Quentin prides himself on being one of the few interns Sherlock ‘I Who Must be Obeyed’ Holmes can work with. There’s a handful of them, and Molly knows them all by name. She’s good at organising the interns around the big bad consulting detective. If he’s in a good mood, she sends in Emma. If he’s in a neutral mood, in a bit of a hurry, she sends in Max. So when she comes into the break room, angrily starts making herself a coffee and then turns around to tell Quentin he’s on Sherlock watch today—”If I have to work with him today, I’ll punch him,” are her exact words—Quentin nods and doesn’t say a word.

There’s a distinct chill in the air when he strolls into the lab. Sherlock Holmes, this dark person, looms over his microscope like he’s Dracula (only without the overcompensating cloak and over-the-top fangs). His expression is tight and drawn, brow folded into a frown. Quentin swallows back a laugh. Today is clearly a day for working  _around_  Sherlock Holmes, not with him.

So when Sherlock speaks, Quentin jumps and just about catches the tray that threatens to fall out of his grip.

“Molly put you on duty, did she?”

“Uh – yeah,” Quentin replies, setting about rearranging the equipment on the tray.

“Thought so,” comes the muttered reply. He fiddles uselessly with the microscope. Quentin swallows a grin. He knows a man desperate not to ask something when he sees it. Very often, they fail miserably.

“Did she say why?” Sherlock Holmes is not an exception to the rule.

“She said something about wanting to punch you.”

Sherlock’s mouth flickers with a grin. He shrugs. “Not surprising.”

“Did you do something?” Quentin asks after a moment. Sherlock immediately looks like he’s swallowed a lemon.

“Invited her on a date.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad—”

“It wasn’t a real one.”

Quentin stops, and frowns. “You’re… gonna have to explain that one.”

“It was for a case,” Sherlock explains, though it’s definitely sounding more like an excuse than a reason.

“You – asked Molly out on a date… for a case?” 

“An important one.”

“Still a dick move, mate.” The tray well arranged, Quentin set about putting it away. He glances at the consulting detective, whose frown is back in place. “However you square it.”

“I’m not  _squaring_  it,” Sherlock says, huffing. He goes back to glaring into the microscope. 

“Sounds like you are.”

“I’m – it’s  _not_ – simple, it’s—” The consulting detective settles for a heavy sigh and looking back into the microscope. “Alright,” he barks out after barely a minute, “what would  _you_  do? In my situation?”

“Not get myself into it, for a start,” Quentin says with a grin, which only makes Sherlock glower. “And apologise. Maybe invite her out on a real date?”

Quentin’s never seen the consulting detective look so damn terrified. Sherlock opens his mouth, closes it and opens it again. Yet before Quentin can say anything else, he’s up and out of the lab. Better to get it done sooner rather than later after all.

* * *

When Quentin enters the break room later on, he finds Molly sitting on the sofa and Sherlock sat at the table, a newspaper hiding his features. The detective eyes Quentin as he enters, and grunts in greeting. He just gives one nod in reply and moves over to the coffee machine. As it’s finishing brewing, he turns towards Molly.

“He does fancy you,” he says, making the detective jump up, but Molly’s reply makes both Sherlock and Quentin pause.

“I know,” she says coolly and she turns her head, arching an eyebrow at Sherlock who, all of a sudden, finds great interest in the clock on the wall. “I’m just waiting for a  _proper_  apology. Not a mumbled one from behind a newspaper.”

Sherlock twitches, and begins to pace. He eventually sighs, coming to a stop.

“ _Fine_.” His voice softens. “I’m sorry. Genuinely.”

“Good.” Molly rises to her feet, and strolls out of the break room. Sherlock watches her go, eyebrows knitting together.

“Molly? Molly!” The door swings in his wake. Quentin, taking a sip of his coffee, chuckles. He’s seen a number of lovesick idiots in his time (himself being one of them), but Sherlock Holmes, it has to be said, is a glowing example.


	186. Unexpected Congratulations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from consulting-pathologist on Tumblr of: "Sherlock and Molly get mistaken as a couple when they are out together and Molly is surprised when Sherlock doesn't try to correct the person."
> 
> FYI, this is totally a deleted scene from 'The Empty Hearse'. ~~In my head.~~

“Thanks again,” Howard grinned as he shook Sherlock’s hand, “for popping by. I’ll tell my girlfriend you popped round. She’ll be dead excited.”

Sherlock’s gaze slid towards hers, eyebrow quirked up briefly and she swallowed back a laugh, hiding her smile. Idly, she traced her fingers against the ring on her finger, twisting it as she led the way out of the flat. Nine carat yellow gold, with one small diamond. It had taken them two fittings to get the sizing right.

“Oh!” Howard’s friendly call made the two of them turn back. “I forgot to say – congrats.”

Molly eyed Sherlock, pressing her lips together into a thin line. Sherlock in turn stared blankly at their client. Howard’s brow crinkled with a frown, his smile fading. He managed a light laugh.

“That’s what people usually say, isn’t it?” It was a half-hearted joke at best. “Of course, it’s supposed to be a private thing, I won’t pry—”

Molly’s cheeks burned pink. Her palm quickly covered her ring as she looked at Howard.

“Um, we’re—”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s answer stopped her own, his crisp and sharp and short. He gave a smile. “We wanted to keep it quiet, but well done for noticing.”

“Oh, thanks. But totally understandable – the whole privacy thing. World’s only consulting detective after all,” Howard said with another grin, hand on the door handle.

“Yeah,” Molly said quickly, her voice quiet. The diamond scratched slightly against her palm.  Back in the innards of his flat, there came the tinny sound of a train’s horn. Howard glanced back briefly before he looked back to them, giving a nod.

“Well. Afternoon, Mr Holmes. If there’s any progress on the case—?”

“I’ll let you know,” Sherlock said with a second smile, more polite than the last one. He turned towards her, tilting his head. His smile softened, but his tone remained as crisp as ever. “Shall we go?”

“Uh, um—” She shook her head (being ridiculous again) and she straightened her shoulders, grinning up at him. “Yeah. Bye, Mr. Shilcott.”

Turning on her heel, she quickly descended the steps. When she turned, she found Sherlock stood at the top of the staircase, locked away in his head— “mind palace”, so he called it. When he broke out of it, his first two ports of call were to demand maps and ask her if she wanted to go for chips. They got to the bottom of the staircase before she caught his full attention. He turned, neck angled to look at her, and she slowed almost to a stop. She’d thought she’d got over doing that.

She swallowed, a question on her tongue. He’d been so  _quick_  to do it, that was the thing. She looked at him, standing there, waiting for her to speak with his hands folded behind his back and his eyes ever curious.

Perhaps best to leave it, for now. She sighed and let the question disappear, replacing it with another.

“What was today about?”


	187. Sheet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a prompt fill, just a stupid married!Sherlolly drabble I came up with on the spur of the moment.

Molly stops short in the bedroom doorway, her hands tying her hair up into a ponytail. She tilts her head, blinks. She turns her head, her gaze sliding up towards the clock on the wall.

“It’s almost 3 o’clock.”

“Lazy day,” he says from the sofa, a lump of white sheet and laptop and bare skin and messy black curls. Mugs surround him. On another day, perhaps she might’ve stopped to admire the tousled look he presented. Instead she sighs.

“Your parents are coming over,” she says, eyeing him as he puts his laptop to one side and strolls into the kitchen. 

“Are they? Hadn’t known.” With a quick roll of her eyes, she follows.

“Yes you did,” she replies, coming up to a stop beside him. Leaning against the worktop, she watched as he set about making his third–fourth?–cup of coffee. “Your mum talked to you on the phone about it.”

He spoons three small spoonfuls of coffee into the mug, grinning at her. “Wasn’t listening.”

“Not a surprise. So – are you going to get dressed?”

“Hm… no.”

She shifts closer, letting her arms drop. One hand drifts towards the hem of the sheet wrapped loosely against his body, her fingers trailing at the cotton. Her mouth tilts up with a smile. “If you don’t,” she murmurs, “I’ll make you.”

His reply is a smile as knowing as her own.

“But my parents are coming over,” he says mockingly.

“Yes,”—now, her voice is almost a whisper—“they are.”

Her grip tightens, her smile stretching into a grin and she pulls the sheet off of his body. Her husband just has enough time to cover himself before the kitchen’s side door opens and Sherlock Holmes’ mother, groundbreaking mathematician, sighs heavily.

“Sherlock Holmes,  _put your clothes on!_ ”


	188. Conductor. (Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thenworld gave me this prompt: "Sherlolly (Or Irene/Molly, I know you like them and the song made me thing of Irene too) and the song Conductor by Florence and the Machine." However, I couldn't choose between the two, so I ended up writing a Molrenelock drabble.

_I am the orchestra_  
_The conductor too_  
_My heart is a concert hall_  
_And I filled it with you_

People have always told her she loves too much. As she’s grown older, she’s grown inclined to believe them. Her skill at love has no restrictions. It bursts forth, vines growing over every aspect of her life, encompassing others and with each one, her heart grows and lives and pulsates.

Some part of her is terrified.

Some part of her wakes up in the middle of the night, wondering if it’s all going to crumble away from her. Some part of her sometimes forgets that there are others like her, others who love as greatly as she does. Then she remembers. There are other people like her. One lies on her left. Curls dark, tousled and tangled. (Her fingers itch to run them through his hair again.) Skin pale, body toned with a tongue that makes her laugh during the day and moan in the heavy of night. His breathing is shallow when he sleeps, always a light sleeper. She dare not disturb him when he’s like this. He’s always up and about, running and chasing and thinking and though that thrills her and she’s more than happy to join him, these moments of quiet are precious and rare.

Irene turns her head, and the other stirs at the action, subconsciously moving closer with a soft sigh. She’s a lighter sleeper than even him, little moans and sighs and mutters making up her nights. Sometimes, Irene’s thankful she’s a deeper sleeper than the both of them. She sleeps in a cocoon, one hand tucked under her cheek and the other clasped against her chest with her legs curled up to her waist. Her lips are parted only a little. Looking at them, Irene finds herself remembering all the kisses, the love bites, that mousy Molly Hooper has left there in the past. Tonight, even. (She is, of course, far from mousy as Sherlock is always willing to point out— and prove, to some extent.)

Molly’s hair is an unpredictable mess, not flowing out behind her like one might think but it envelops her pillow, strands over her face or trailing down her back or against her shoulders. She isn’t a morning person; it takes her about two cups of coffee before she’s up to her usual standard of brightness and jokes. But one thing that doesn’t waver is her kindness, her warmth.

A purr and a creak makes Irene look towards the bedroom door. She pulls herself up, propping herself up on her elbow. The purring continues and the fat furball that is Toby leaps onto the bed. His paws snatch at the sheets before he curls up at the end of the bed, his eyes focusing briefly on Irene before he closes them. His purr grows louder in volume, the picture of a quite contented cat.

Irene grins.

“Me too cat,” she murmurs, looking at both of her lovers before she settles back into sleep. “Me too.”


	189. Works for Me. (Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [conchepcion](http://archiveofourown.org/users/conchepcion/pseuds/conchepcion) mentioned, ages ago, her need for a Mystrade/Sherlolly 'The Holiday' AU. And after drowning myself in angst one day, I found that I was in desperate need of some fluff, and writing just such an AU seemed to do just the trick.

He didn’t take much stock in holidays, or taking them, for that matter. In his industry, in his line of work, a holiday was more code for ‘PR move’, something one could refer to when they were accused of  _not being one with the populous_. His mentor had taken such a holiday and had never been quite the same. She’d gone for two weeks, a woman of iron with sharp words and quick wit, and had come back with a penchant for a whiskey and philosophical discussions about where the time went. A year later and she was in the House of Lords, earning a good amount of money for simply turning up.

So when Anthea had mentioned the prospect of him taking one, he’d blanched. Even the offer of a pay rise hadn’t stopped her making the suggestion. The cottage – him, in a cottage, near  _Christmas_  – had already been booked, she’d said with a smile. It was only the promise that spending the year’s Christmas in the cottage would mean not having to endure it in Surrey with his parents. That was all that swayed him.

The journey there, sadly, was not one Mycroft would’ve called easy. The trek across slushy, snowy ground that made his legs ache and wobble was the worst part. Being greeted by a storybook cottage, brown stone and a heavy wooden door, did not make it worth it. Inside, thankfully, was warm. The furniture was antique, a musky scent hovering over the cushions and blankets. Obviously hadn’t been looked after, but well-used. Decorations, surprisingly minimal for what he’d expected, hung over the fireplace. He peered into the kitchen, separated from the living room by only a brick arch.  _Ah_. An Aga stood in the middle of the wall, cushioned in by wooden worktops. Antique cabinets hovered above it, the tell-tale look of ‘rustique’ about it all. Both living room and kitchen.

Dropping his bag by the door, he headed up the stairs. Upstairs was much of the same veneer. A double bed and a wardrobe had been squeezed into the bedroom, clearly by someone with an optimistic outlook on life. A bathroom was the only other room upstairs, linked to the bedroom by one narrow hallway. Pushing open the door, he paused on seeing what he was expected to bathe in. Green, porcelain with a black lip and antique taps that took up most of the space.

Mycroft glowered.

_Anthea._

* * *

Molly scrambled to open the latch and the window swung open. Sticking her head through the open space, she took a large gulp, letting the winter air chill her lungs. Snow fell past her face, sticking to her cheeks and her nose. She shook her head. Sniffing gas simply because her ex had got engaged— “Low point,” she muttered to herself, directing a perfunctory slap to her own face, “ _very_  low point!”

Then her laptop beeped at her. A steamer of a thing that she still had to replace, she scrambled over to it. She paused when she came to find a name – anthea_ravenscroft@gmail.co.uk – tucked underneath the subject heading: Inquiry about Holly Cottage’. Hesitantly, she clicked.

Business talk flashed up at her.

_My boss is looking for a holiday let for the Christmas season, and it seems that your cottage would be a viable candidate. Please reply ASAP._

_Um…_ Hurriedly, she deleted that first word.  _Thank you for your inquiry_ , she typed out even though talking like this, in long words and polite, vague terms always made her feel silly.  _How long is your boss going to stay for?_

_RE: Inquiry about Holly Cottage  
I plan for him to stay for a couple of weeks, between Christmas and New Year._

Molly’s fingers paused over her keyboard.

_RE: Inquiry about Holly Cottage  
You plan? You mean… he isn’t planning this holiday himself?_

_RE: Inquiry about Holly Cottage  
No. But I either plan this for him or I suffer having to spend January listening to him moan about his mother singing carols and not serving him Christmas cake._

Molly giggled heartily, for perhaps the first time that day. It had been miserable; so many people telling her she was brave to come into work after he’d done such an awful thing. “I definitely wouldn’t have!” Donna had said cheerfully, rubbing Molly’s arm and giving her a warm smile. Her returning one had been lukewarm, at best.

_RE: Inquiry about Holly Cottage  
I can see why you would! Just wondering though – you do know that this is an exchange thing? He comes to my house, I go to his… whatever he has._

_RE: Inquiry about Holly Cottage  
You’ll be staying just outside London. That alright with you?_

She noticed that this Anthea (whoever she was, though Molly was inclined to think her a lifesaver, considering she was currently in such a fragile state she just had to look at her sofa and start bawling) didn’t mention how her boss would react to the news some stranger was to stay in his home while he lived it up in the middle of nowhere.

_RE: Inquiry about Holly Cottage  
That’s great. I need to get out of this house. I mean, it’s a lovely house, really nice and pretty and everything, I just – there’s some bad memories (currently) attached to it._

_RE: Inquiry about Holly Cottage  
Bad break up?_

Amazing, how one woman could often so quickly get straight to the heart of another’s woman problem. She wasn’t, of course, completely unhappy that Jim had got engaged soon after they’d broken it off; after all, some people really did meet the love of their life four days after splitting up with someone—

“Who am I kidding?” Molly said out loud to herself. She was crying in her bed, in her kitchen, even in her bathroom, and eating chocolate by the bucket load.

_RE: Inquiry about Holly Cottage  
The worst. I really, honestly, quite genuinely, hate myself._

_Hate him,_ Anthea urged, the sarcasm gone for the first time. _He’s the one who led you on._

Molly sighed and typed out her reply.

_RE: Inquiry about Holly Cottage  
Just assure me there are no men that could interrupt my lonely, lonely Christmas._

_RE: Inquiry about Holly Cottage  
None whatsoever. You’ll be able to cry in peace._

Molly grinned. That was exactly what she needed.

* * *

With some effort, Mycroft lifted his leg out from the bath and rubbed at his tingling, numbed shin. It was certainly not a bathroom made for people over the average height. Perhaps exactly why Anthea had booked this particular cottage. (He made the mental memo to give her the pay raise she had requested.) When some of the numbing had disappeared and he rendered himself somehow amble to walk, Mycroft climbed out of the bath and strolled across the hallway. Despite his brother’s beliefs, he was not afraid nor horrified by nudity. 

Or sex, for that matter, but in his industry, it was better to be celibate than active. It at least gave the papers one less weapon in their armoury. He supposed if he ever did attempt some kind of relationship, they would have a field day. Mycroft Holmes –  _having sex_. It was a lewd thing, a thing made all the more lewd by the fact he preferred the same sex. Or he ‘batted for the other team’, as the media would so delicately say. Sometimes Mycroft did wonder if they’d ever left the 80s. (With Cameron in power, it was difficult to tell.) Humming a trill of Mozart, he changed into a shirt, a sweater and jeans and headed downstairs to grapple with the kettle in the hope of tea. Two pairs of socks covered his feet, just in case. He’d heard of these country cottages, chopping and changing their temperature at will with no consideration for the outside climate or the people inside. And, with there seeming to be no people about, not for at least twenty miles, he felt mildly safe wearing ‘slob’ clothes. Though if his brother decided to turn up at this point, he knew the glee and the humiliation would be endless.

A loud knock sounded on the door. Mycroft remained where he was, unhurried to let the humiliation start  _so_ soon. The knock sounded again.

“Molly, let me in! Bloody hell, c’mon! I’m bursting!”

Mycroft frowned. Molly, presumably the owner of this cottage, was not him. The person outside – not his brother, he quickly recognised – did not seem to know that. Whoever they were, they knocked for the third time.

“Molly! I swear to God, I’ll piss all over your doorstep if you don’t –  _oh._ ” The man toppled, catching himself on the doorway with his hand. He zipped up his fly, squinting at Mycroft. “You’re – you’re not Molly?”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. “ _Obviously._ ”

Back in the kitchen, the kettle whistled.

* * *

She was in paradise. Literal, actual paradise. She loved the quaint, tiny nature of her cottage but the fact that her entire living room and kitchen could fit into the entrance hall bewitched her slightly. She’d gulped as she’d been driven –  _driven_ , with an actual driver in the front – through the electronic security gates and towards the house, a red brick suburban palace, just 40 minutes or so from the centre of London, with topiary lining the short drive and the canopy above the front door supported by marble columns. 

Almost as soon as she’d got the keys in her hand, she’d unlocked the door and set about running through the hallways and down the corridors. Living room, gym, dining room, kitchen, garden, swimming pool – _swimming pool!_  – pretty much everything was there. She ran up the stairs two at a time. A labyrinth made up the upstairs, a far cry from the narrow hallway that made up her home. She finally stopped in the master bedroom, slowly sitting on the double bed. A painting was opposite her, an artful piece made up of painted shards, carefully arranged behind the glass. Molly let out a breath, a smile growing onto her lips. Her smile bubbled out into a laugh and she covered her face with her hands as she fell backwards onto the bed. All this— and no men!

 _Thank you Anthea_ , she thought. This – this was definitely what she needed.

Then a phone rang. Somewhere in the distance, in the annals of this huge house, it rang. Molly sat bolt upright, narrowing her eyes. The phone continued to ring. Sliding off of the bed, she hurried out of the bedroom and towards the top of the stairs. A phone was by the front door, set aside on a low glass table. A green light flashed insistently on the receiver, perfectly in time with each ring. Molly rushed down the steps and grabbed the phone.

“Mm?” She cringed. Apparently when she was in a rush, she forgot all about the greeting of ‘hello’. 

“Mycroft, it’s me.”

“Um—” The voice was brusque, baritone and well, rather surprising. She oscillated on the spot, her heels digging back into the plush carpet. “Uh—”

“Mycroft?” The voice repeated the name, this time with a question behind it. They cleared their throat. “Anthea.”

“Uh, no—”

“No?”

“Yes!”

“Yes?”

“No! I mean, no, it’s not Anthea. My name’s Molly.” She laughed, nervous. “Molly Hooper.”

There was a long pause. “My brother’s gay.”

“Is he?”

“I thought it should be fairly obvious.”

“Uh, well, I’ve never met him, so—”

“You’ve never met my brother, yet you’re in his house?” The voice seemed irritable. She laughed, again, and immediately regretted it.

“He’s on, um, he’s on holiday. In my house. House exchange. He needed somewhere for Christmas, and I needed to – get away from, well, everything really.”

“My brother doesn’t take  _holidays._ ”

“Well, clearly he does!” Molly said hotly, her nerves fading by just how obstinate this man was being. She couldn’t believe it could take so long for one person to accept another wasn’t home.

“Fine.” Another large pause. “Are you going to let me in at all?”

Molly frowned. “Why should I?”

“Because I’m pretty sure I’m going to pass out in a minute.”

* * *

He managed to find only two mugs within the kitchen cupboards, furthering his suspicion that the gentleman who’d threatened to piss all over the doorway was not at least a regular fixture in Molly’s life. She seemed rather a lonely soul, in fact. Two of everything, with a half-full bottle of whiskey hidden in one of the lower cupboards. A counselling sort of person, she seemed to be, someone one went to when they needed a shoulder to weep onto. Accounted for the two of everything. Behind him, footsteps creaked on the stairs and he turned his head. The gentleman, reaching the bottom of the staircase, grinned lopsidedly and ruffled at his grey hair as he approached the sofa. 

“Sorry about the, uh, pissing thing.” He nodded towards the door as he sat. “Molly usually laughs at that one.”

“Does she,” Mycroft said, biting back a remark. Pouring a little bit of milk into each cup, he disposed of the tea bags in the bin and headed into the living room, a mug in each hand.

“Yeah,” the gentleman replied and he removed his scarf – grey, closely knitted but not well crafted – and set it down beside him. Mycroft set down the two mugs onto the coffee table and sat in the opposite armchair, leaning back. The gentleman stared at him for a moment, but reached forward and drank from his mug. “Thanks for the tea. Needed that. Name’s Greg, by the way.”

“Mycroft Holmes.” He gave a polite smile. “Nice to meet you.”

Greg chuckled, eyes twinkling. “You always introduce yourself by your full name?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Greg’s smile faded, but then soon returned. “Bet you’re wondering why I’m here?”

“You’re a friend of Molly’s,” Mycroft declared with a sniff. “That or a significant other – I haven’t yet decided.”

“Friend,” Greg said, laughing when Mycroft frowned in response. Swinging his legs up, he propped them up on the arm of the sofa and stretching himself out. “Sorry. Ruins the mystery a bit that does, doesn’t it? Yeah, I’m just her friend. I live way up in the town, see. But when I don’t want Hannah seeing me like this, I kip on her sofa.”

Mycroft said nothing. It was a brave single woman who took in a married man.

“Hannah’s my daughter.” Mycroft turned his head, looking at Greg. His grin was back, and his eyes had that familiar twinkle again. 

Mycroft sniffed. “Do you often get drunk?”

Greg gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Rarely. Just happened to choose a day when you were here, and not Molly.”

Mycroft Holmes was a man of the world and though he may not have partaken in sex and everything tangled up with it, he could tell when he was being hit on.

Greg suddenly sat up, groaning with the effort. He ran his hands over his face and buried them into his hair.

“Nope,” he said, a tad too dramatically. “Tried doing it. Can’t do it.”

“Do what?” Mycroft asked. Against his better judgement, he felt himself smirk.

“Sleep. Must’ve drunk too much I think.”

“Hm.” Mycroft shifted in his seat, his eyes scanning Greg’s form. He was fit, good looking (something the premature grey hair added to) and he supposed a one-night stand wouldn’t harm his political career  _too_ much if it took place in the outskirts of the middle of nowhere. He cleared his throat, causing Greg to look at him. 

“I’ve heard it said that sex helps one to sleep.”

Greg’s smile returned for a third time.

* * *

On such a grandiose statement, Molly had pressed about every buzzer going on the damn machine until she’d heard a buzzing sound and a faint, grumbled ‘thank you’. Slamming down the phone, she’d rushed to the door and undid the latch, opening it. A tall figure had stumbled inside, clutching their side. She’d barely been able to say anything before he’d barked ‘kitchen’ at her, leaving her to follow on.

Now he sat at the kitchen island, coat and shirt abandoned on the stool next to him while she bent over him, working to stitch up a shallow wound just underneath his abdomen.

“You were lucky with this,” she murmured as she worked. In her peripheral vision, she caught him rolling his eyes.

“Tad dramatic.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “And rolling up to your brother’s with a stomach wound isn’t?”

He said nothing, which she decided meant he’d conceded the point.

“What do you do anyway?” she asked after a moment. “To lead to getting stabbed? I assume by the wound you were stabbed. With a short –  _ish_  – knife as well, considering its depth.”

“Consulting detective,” he said slowly. His eyebrows knit together. “Only one in the world.”

“Hm. Impressive,” she replied, smiling up at him. “Doctor. In case you were wondering. Specialist registrar, if you want to be precise.”

“Pathology’s your speciality.”

Her smile widened. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

“You’re good with your hands. And formaldehyde. You stink of it.”

“Knew I should’ve had a shower before I left work,” she murmured, focusing on the stitching. She heard him laugh, the sound soft.

“So…” he said, more to himself than her. “My brother on holiday. Wonder what he’s doing with his time.”

* * *

They’d managed to make it into the bedroom, despite temptation, and though it was not the longest sex Mycroft had ever had in his life, Greg’s energy and pure enthusiasm had made up for that fact. Panting, Greg rolled onto his back and gave a long, rounded laugh.

“I did not expect that to happen tonight.”

“Neither did I,” Mycroft smirked, “but then fate has something in store for us all.”

Greg eyed him, tucking his arm behind his head. “You like being mysterious, don’t you?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Have to be, in my line of work. A politician doesn’t air their dirty laundry.”

Greg tilted his head, looking fully at Mycroft. “Huh.”

“What?”

“You don’t strike me as a politician.”

“The best ones never do.”

“How about a date?” The question broke the quiet that fell over them and Mycroft promptly choked on nothing, whipping his head around to lock eyes with Greg.

“A – date?”

“Yeah.” Greg shifted against the mattress. “Personally, I don’t  _usually_  ask out a one-night stand, but uh – I find you – interesting.”

“Interesting.”

“Yeah, interesting.”

Mycroft scratched idly at his palm. From what he’d seen on his horrid journey towards the cottage, the town hadn’t looked that big. At least, it wasn’t an area of any political importance. He supposed he could risk a date there. Once or twice.

* * *

Molly leaned against the island worktop and drank from her coffee. “So, do you normally come to your brother’s when chased by criminals?” 

Sat across from her, still sans shirt but now with a bandage on his stomach and coffee in his hand (‘black, three sugars’ had been his bluntly made order), he flicked his gaze up to hers. “Not if I can help it.”

“Why didn’t you just say?”

He blinked. “Hm?”

“When you were outside. Why didn’t you just go, oh, ‘I’ve just been stabbed, can you help me?’”

“We’d just met,” he said. A playful smile touched at the corners of his mouth. “Seemed rude.”

“So social etiquette trumps bleeding. I’ll have to remember that in future.”

His smile grew and he set down his coffee on the worktop, tilting his head.

“You said you needed to get away from something. I’d take a guess at a break up. This is an impulse holiday after all – you sounded flustered, as if you’d just arrived, and if my brother had planned this holiday, I’m sure I would’ve been told about it six months prior at least. So it’s safe to assume this is as much an impulse as it is for him. Plus, you keep tracing your fingers over your ring finger – therefore, break up.”

“He left it four days.”

He blinked. “What?”

“We were together for two years. On and off. Engaged for six months. Then he dumped me, and left it four days before he got engaged to someone else.” She gave a bright, false smile and sipped at her coffee.

“So I was right.”

For no reason, no reason that she knew of, she found herself laughing. It was a laugh that echoed in the cool, clean lined kitchen and one that after a moment, his laughter mixed in with hers.


	190. No Man is an Island.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "I've been thinking a lot about Sherlock and Molly somehow ending up on a deserted island together and have to survive until they're rescued. Being in that situation tends to bring people closer". I tweaked this prompt a bit, so ‘deserted island’ became a metaphor and the rest became light post-Fall smut.
> 
> Chapter title nicked from Ben Howard's song [Black Flies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LPXJXxfauis) because as I've no doubt proved already, I have no imagination when it comes to these sorts of things.

When he was in school, he had read Shakespeare. The tragedy had touched his heart (first and last time) and he’d indulged in endless debates about the metaphors in them.  _Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs_. Literature love. It had taken him months to realise dear old Romeo and tragic young Juliet were metaphors themselves. It took only a few minutes—moments, seconds—of calculated falling for him to become one. A dead man walking. A cliché if ever there was one.

She’s allowed him one cigarette. Bedroom window open by a crack, smoke alarm blocked off by the door. He’s stuffed pillows against the crack at the bottom. Old teenager trick. She’s probably used it once or twice. He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. It surrounds him, the acrid scent that he knows adds more damage to his lungs but fuck it. It’s only transport and it’s damaged beyond repair anyway. His lips quirk with a smile when he realises that Mycroft, if he were here, would have a fit.

He should get some sleep, but the bed, small and yellow and cheap, doesn’t call to him. There’s something about dying that makes him all the more picky.

In all the time he’s known her, he’s never been inside her flat before. He thought he knew what it would be like, from what he’s gleaned from her. He envisioned pink. Or things to do with pink. Femininity. That’s always been a word he associates with her. Girlish. Bubble bath. Stars. Flowers. The associations children would make. He’s never been an old soul. Never truly been mature. Always yearning to be better, that’s what he’s been. He’s killed himself for the privilege.

The flooring in here, the spare bedroom, is base and bare. Just brown planks of old wood, gnarled and bitten with age. It reminds him of  _rache_  (revenge, German), an unborn baby and a woman in pink sending a message. The skirting is white, paint peeling. A basement job. Plainly, she doesn’t have many visitors. He eyes the small cot in the corner and reassesses his verdict. Not many visitors, yes, apart from one: a sister, one child. Doesn’t visit that often but as Molly has shown in the past—has shown today—she is one for helping. For having precautions. ‘Just in case’. That’s probably her catchphrase when he’s not around.

“When I’m not around,” he murmurs with a chuckle, though there’s nothing really funny about it. It’s clear to see in her flat, clean and tidy and ocean blue as it is, that he makes her into something she isn’t. He makes her nervous, makes her giggly and nervous, and now he knows why he can’t sleep in the yellow bed. When he went to her in the lab, to ask her (beg her) for her help, he expected tears. He expected dramatics. But she just gave herself to him. No questions asked and no hesitations. He had felt so raw stood there, voice shaking and every step a struggle and she’d showed herself to him with absolute ease.

His legs are starting to tingle. Pins and needles. He needs to move. Untangling himself, he stands up with palms brushing against the rough wood. Straightening up, he takes one last gulp of the cigarette and throws it out. The window comes down with a creak.

* * *

He wanders around her flat but it’s too small, too unfamiliar. He feels like a zombie, wandering through the hall and peeking into rooms he’s never seen. He yearns for Baker Street. For his leather armchair, his sofa, his books. That stupid wallpaper his mother insisted on. Molly has books but they’re science journals, novels sparse but well-thumbed. He sees a tablet on her coffee table, pink wrapped around it in a cover. An abandoned cup of tea, cold by now no doubt. There’s a kettle in the kitchen, and a packet of fruit tea. He’d guessed she’d be a fruit tea person. So that was one thing right. Her cupboards are full, stuffed with bread and biscuits and pasta. Fruit sits in a bowl on the kitchen table. She favours apples and oranges. Her mugs are varied, but her glasses all the same and arranged in uniform lines and rows. She uses the mugs more.

He closes the door to her kitchen, just as another door opens. He turns. It’s opened of its own accord, the hinges obviously weak. Perhaps it’s a reoccurring problem. Or perhaps, Sherlock realises, it’s the result of her cat pushing past and into the bedroom. He follows the creature, pushing open the door a little bit wider.

The curtains are drawn over the window, the material thick and heavy. In the dark, he sees only an outline of her, buried underneath the sheets (he took her for a duvet person), with her hands tucked under the pillow and her legs bent at the knee.

The outline shifts when she stirs. He needs to move before she sees him, double back and shut the door and head towards that yellow bed and the rough planks of wood. Her saying his name ruins that plan, and he doesn’t know how to happens but with the muted activity of London (something he won’t be part of, something he’ll soon have to say goodbye to) happening beyond her window, he ends up taking off his shoes and slipping into bed beside her.

Her cat leaps onto the bed, walks past her lap and settles on his. Molly giggles.

“He likes you.”

Sherlock freezes. “Yes, well—” He’s always hated cats. The creature’s paws gnaw at the sheets and it purrs. Molly leans forward, her body close to his, making him feel her warmth, and she directs a smile at him which he just about sees.

“I’ll get rid of him.” With little effort, she scoops the cat up and drops it onto the floor. Sherlock watches it until it slips out of the room, a tiny meow its only protest.

Molly draws back from him and he realises just how cold he is. Settling back against the bed, she scoops her hair back from her face and draws the sheets over her shoulder. Her eyes close. He still can’t sleep. He’s frozen there, in his shirt and his trousers (once armour, but this isn’t a battle, that’s already been fought) and he doesn’t know what the hell to do. He tries to settle down, tries to press his head against the soft down pillow but every effort is more vain than the last. She stirs. Perhaps she can feel him wriggling. She lifts her head towards him, peering at him.

“Do you want me to leave?” she asks through the darkness. He frowns.

“No.” He lets his expression relax, lets his body breathe. “No, I don’t.”

Her lips close in thought. “Oh. Okay.”

She speaks so softly, so delicately. He stares at her, he can’t seem to stop.

“Molly—” His eyes are adjusting to the light now, and he can see more than just an outline of her. He can see her frown, trying to read him. Trying to find out his thoughts. Seems like she’s the only one who does try. Others just take him for granted, call him ‘machine’. He wouldn’t be surprised if they thought he sees the world in green codes and numbers. He swallows. “You said that – whatever I need…”

There’s no rhyme nor reason to why he’s saying these things, why he wants what his words imply. But he is a fraud, nothing but a criminal in most people’s eyes come the morning, and here lies a woman who has seen him at his worst and has accepted him. No wonder he wants her.

Her finger touch his jawline and her thumb brushes the hollow of his cheek.

“What do you need, Sherlock?”

He doesn’t want to say it aloud, but how else can he make himself known to her? He sighs.

“You.”

She says nothing and he’s gripped by the fear that he’s misread her, that she doesn’t want him after all (why would she, when she’s seen him like this), and all thoughts are stilled when she kisses him. Wrong again. The kiss itself; that starts slowly, hesitant mouths moving. Hesitant though, is a brief feeling. It never sticks around for long. It merges into something known, something both familiar and dissimilar to them both and he breathes her in, every part of her that he can and can’t deduce. She sits up, pulls her nightshirt over her head, revealing herself to him in the dark. Breasts that could (would,  _will_ ) fit against his palm, slight hips and a belly that’s warm to the touch. She helps him with his clothes and takes him in hand. She’s an expert at this, another side to her he’s never seen, and God he can almost see stars. He touches at her heat, and she lets go of him, letting him roll them until her back hits the bed. She’s wet for him, so wet, and her moans are in his ear, against his neck and he has to kiss her again.

* * *

She sleeps now. Her expression is peaceful, her head buried against his chest as he lies flat on his back, his breaths just about coming back. With one hand he holds her waist and the other gently feels the strands of her hair, dampened a little by their exertions. For a moment, he is isolated from the world with her, her bed an island. He crooks a smile. Another metaphor.

(He doesn’t expect, in two years, that he’ll come back and see her engaged.)


	191. A Tailored Diet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thenworld asked: "Sherlock and Molly decide to bake fancy cookies, they end up discovering allergies." She also asked for silly, so I went silly. 
> 
> Well, silly banter anyway.

“It’s not an allergy. Not in those sorts of terms.”

“You just get a rash any time you get any sort of gluten near you.”

“Yes.”

Molly sighed, removing her apron. Wordlessly, she began to clear the kitchen table. Sat in his chair, itching at his arm, Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Molly, hanging her apron on the back of the kitchen door, did not look to him.

“Most of my patients are dead,” she started, still clearing the table, “but well. I’m pretty sure a skin rash means you’re allergic. At least I know why you don’t eat much.”

“Calls for a tailored diet, yes. But that doesn’t mean you have to be so—” he huffed, “ _dramatic_  about it all.”

She finally looked at him. Her brow sank into a frown and she tucked her hands against her hips. “Who said I was dramatic?”

“You do have the tendency,” Sherlock muttered, though he avoided her eyes.

“I do  _not!_ ” she retorted, aghast, and thus proving his point entirely. He tilted an eyebrow at her. 

“Clearly.” 

Her cheeks flushed a light pink and her mouth parted, then closed again. He stifled a laugh.

“Fine, maybe I am,” she said eventually, “but at least I can admit I’m dramatic.”

Sherlock didn’t have to ask her meaning. The hint in her tone was so heavy, he could hear the thud as it landed. 

“I can too.” Unfortunately, his retort was more petulant than he estimated. Molly, moving towards the sink, snorted.

“Okay then.” Washing her hands, she splashed the warm water against her face. She threw a look over her shoulder at him. “Admit it. Admit you’re dramatic.”

He leaned back in his chair, his hands linked together against his stomach. His expression was cool, a smirk tugging at his lips. (The rash on his arm did serve to warm it a little.)

“I’m dramatic. Part of my job.”

Molly considered his words with a scrunch of her nose. “That’s not really a true confession,” she mused, drying her hands with a cloth. “You put it with an excuse.”

Sherlock’s cool expression sunk into a glower as she strolled into the living room and settled into the chair opposite.

“Explanation,” he corrected. Molly shrugged.

“Excuse.” His glare deepened at her reply though her widened grin brightened her features. She stayed for a moment, her brown eyes warm and her smug grin fading into a smile hidden in the corners of her mouth. One could only find it if they looked for it.

“Now—” she stood, looming over him for once, and tilted her head, “coffee?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and watched as she headed back into the kitchen.

“Black, two sugars.”

She glanced at him over her shoulders. Her cheeks dimpled. “I know the drill.”


	192. Sorry is the Sweetest Word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everchanging101 asked: "I keep seeing prompts where Sherlock is the one apologizing because he was wrong (which is statistically more likely), but I'd like to see Molly apologizing to him and Sherlock savoring the moment."
> 
> Following fill is established!Sherlolly; also short, and a little bit saucy.

“Hm, I didn’t quite hear that.”

Molly rolled her eyes and tugged at his shirt, letting the hem flutter over his trousers.

“Yes you did, you git.”

He grinned, wolfishly. “I really didn’t.”

“I said it three times. The last one just now.”

“I’ve always preferred even numbers over odd.”

“And how about the number zero?” Molly muttered. “‘Cause that’s what you’ll be dealing with soon.” 

Sherlock only lowered his gaze, and eyed her fingers on his shirt buttons. She blushed when he looked back to her. Her mouth twisted into a poorly hidden smile.

“Oh shut up.”

His hands brushed against her thighs and came to curl underneath her knees. His fingers traced small circles against her skin, and he kissed at her throat.

“Exactly what did you apologise for? I forgot.”

She groaned. “I swear, I’m going to leave this flat in a minute.”

“Alright.” He curled his hands around her waist and pulled her closer. He caught her mouth in a brief kiss. “But I promise I’ll be extremely thankful.”

The meaning wasn’t lost on her. She draped her arms around his shoulders, a knowing look in her eyes. “Extremely?”

“Just have to hear it once more.”

“Hm.” She traced one hand against his torso, her gaze lowering. She shrugged. “I suppose it’s a fair trade.”

“Oh, entirely.”

She laughed and kissed his nose. “Then I’m sorry. Very sorry.”

“Technically, that was twice.”

“Then I’m sure you’re twice as thankful.”

Another grin, just as wolfish and wicked as the last, flicked across his lips. “Definitely.” 

With his forefinger and thumb, he flicked open the button of her trousers and he dropped to his knees, sliding the soft material down and off her legs. Molly smiled down at her consulting detective. Perhaps she did, on reflection, need to apologise more often.


	193. A Child's Deduction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a prompt fill, but rather what evidence of what springs into my head when I'm about to go to sleep. Splash of parent!Warstan, comedic hints of Sherlock/Molly.

Ruby Watson was one for pondering, and one for thinking. Often, she posited theories. Mostly, she posited them at the dinner table. Some of them were to do with the world in general or her teachers at school. Sometimes they were about people she knew.

“Uncle Sherlock should be fat.”

Mary paused, spaghetti twirled against her fork. “What’s that darling?”

“Uncle Sherlock. He should be enormously fat.”

John chuckled. “Why’d you say that?”

“He’s always hungry! Hungrier than Gladstone!” The dog in question jerked up in his bed, immediately awake. Ruby continued. “Like, last night – you made a big yummy roast dinner, didn’t you Mummy?”

“Yes.”

“And you invited Uncle Sherlock round and Auntie Molly too.”

Mary frowned. “Yes…” she repeated slowly. Her gaze shifted towards her husband. He shrugged, unable to yet decipher their daughter’s point.

“And it was a great roast, with loads of potatoes and everything,” Ruby continued. “But when you and Daddy were clearing the plates away, I heard Uncle Sherlock talking to Auntie Molly.”

John blinked. “Right.”

“And all Uncle Sherlock could talk about was how hungry he was! He said he was famished.” Ruby sighed, exasperated by the puzzle. “We’d had chocolate cake for pudding as well.”

John coughed, the sound strangled, and Mary choked back what sounded like a laugh. Ruby peered at both of her parents.

“What? Mummy, what’s so funny?”

“Nothing, Ru, nothing. But I think there’s a good reason Uncle Sherlock isn’t fat.”

“What’s that?”

“He obviously gets lots – and lots – of exercise,” Mary said. Ruby considered this for a moment, and nodded.

“Mm. He runs about a lot with Auntie Molly.”

“Among other things.” John grinned and chewed on a portion of his spaghetti. Ruby’s eyebrows knitted together. She straightened up.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Daddy has a theory that Molly and Sherlock—” Mary paused, searching for the right word, “kiss.”

“Kiss?!” Ruby threw down her fork and made a disgusted noise. “Blergh!”


	194. The Honourable Miss Hooper. (1920s!Sherlolly) (Part 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stories-make-us-fly asked for me to continue with my 1920s AU months ago, and I got the energy recently to finish up this third drabble which I'd started but then abandoned.

There were a number of problems, she would admit, with women’s clothing. One, it was constantly in or out of fashion whereas men could wear the same thing three years in a row and no-one batted an eyelid. They perhaps referred to the man as an eccentric, but that only served to make him all the more lovable. Two, even though stockings gave a girl a great finish to an ensemble, they were a pain to put on. Three, short skirts and dancing shoes were highly impractical when climbing over twigs and logs and wading through muddy leaves. 

Her coat, a knee-length mac tied tightly around her waist, protected the upper area of the body, but her lower half was at the mercy of nature. In such a hurry she had been to get into the woods on time, she had left herself no time in which to change. 

Poor Tommy had been the source of the delay. 

Overwhelmed by the events of the past few days, he had found solace in regaling Molly with stories about his dear old girl Tuppence, snuffed out by what appeared to be a heart attack. Molly’s heart went out to him, sincerely and completely, but it was rather difficult to point out to a grieving widower that it was suspicious that healthy women like Tuppence just suddenly dropped dead from what one local policeman had called ‘shock’. Some poor soul had discovered her body in the forest, and superstitious sorts had whispered that Tuppence had fallen victim to the White Woman. A jilted bride, so the local tales said, who had committed suicide by hanging from the old oak and even to this day roamed the forest at midnight to bring other wives to their deaths. It was, obviously, highly doubtful such a ghost (or indeed, any ghost at all) existed but a local legend was often a blessed advantage for someone who had something to hide.

“Is this what young ladies often do on their holidays?”

Molly paused, her legs either side of the log and her hands pressed against the hard bark. She looked up and saw him standing a little distance away, his dark coat and even darker suit making him almost invisible against the midnight air. He was making a habit of this.

“Yes,” she bit out. Swinging her right leg over the log, she brushed herself down and straightened up to look at him with a huff. Chasing a local legend did not give her time to stand over a log and argue with Sherlock Holmes. He smiled, amused.

“The White Woman, I presume?” His smile widened into a knowing, gloating expression that made dread loom up in the pit of her stomach. He climbed easily over the log and moved to stand beside her. He glanced over the dark, dense forest. “Let’s hope it’s a viable lead this time.”

“You believed that flat was a lead just as much as I did, don’t—” A distant rustle of activity behind made Molly turn her head. Hurrying to crouch behind the log, Molly gestured for Sherlock to hide. He nestled in beside her, peeking out over the top. Eyeing him, Molly followed suit. Through the thick trees, a figure moved. Short and thin, they wore a wide-brimmed hat on their head and a thick black scarf around their neck.

“It’s a pity you didn’t stick around,” Sherlock whispered, his words only audible to her. “At the old woman’s flat. She turned out to be rather nice.”

Molly rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t about to take tea with a woman who’d held a gun at me.”

“You should’ve done,” Sherlock replied, his voice still a whisper and his eyes still locked onto the forest landscape. He glanced behind. “I found out she’s a landlady. She was looking for a tenant.”

“What?”

“For a flat she owns – 221b Baker Street. Major Watson and his wife have been very accommodating over the last few months, I admit, but it was getting a little cramped there – so I took up her offer.”

Molly’s eyebrows rose. “And it’s a pity I wasn’t there because…?”

“Well,” Sherlock shrugged and looked to her with a loose grin. “I believe you once complained to me about the size of your rooms. Too small, I believe you said. Or there were not enough things in it. I forget.”

Molly glowered hard at the implication.

“I’m perfectly happy with my rooms, thank you,” she said in a cool whisper, though all conversation of apartments and flats stopped when the same figure appeared again, darting across the landscape and through the trees. It was five minutes before they re-entered the forest, this time carrying a burlap sack over their shoulder. The figure hurried back and into a thicket of trees. Molly shot to her feet and climbed back over the log, hurrying over the muddy forest floor. With Sherlock beside her, the both of them followed the figure’s trail. Branches snatched at them and Molly felt, in the dark, Sherlock’s hand hold her waist.

“If you step on my foot one more time, you’ll break it,” he said by way of explanation. Brushing branches away with their fingertips and their footsteps now moving in unison, they made good progress through the thicket. Eventually breaking through from the trees, they found the famed oak tree, a creature of gnarled bark and twisted branches and thick roots which fed into the leaf covered ground.

“Well, no ghost,” Molly murmured. Looking at the oak circled by trees that almost looked black in the dark light she understood why some would attach such a lurid tale to it.

Behind her, she heard Sherlock give a large sniff. She turned her head, eyeing him with an eyebrow raised. He sniffed again.

“Can you smell something? I definitely can.”

Molly gave a hesitant sniff and found that he was right. She hadn’t taken notice of it before, but when she took another, deeper, sniff she wondered how on Earth she could’ve missed it. Stepping forward, she followed the scent. Her shoes crunched against the leaves and she rounded the oak tree. The scent was stronger now, bitter and overwhelming. Covering her nose, she edged forwards towards the trees that circled the oak. Heading into the forest again, away from the oak, she saw it. Through the branches, it was a small ramshackle shed. She continued forward. The bitter scent had changed now into something resembling—

Gin. The stench of it filled her nostrils as she opened the door to the shed. The old, knotted wood door creaked on its hinges and a clinking of glass down below made her look down. Bottles, empty and unused, were packed inside a small crate. She must’ve touched them with her foot in the dark. Molly bent down and picked out one of the bottles. A white label was pressed across the bottle, a familiar logo the picture. ‘Harrington House Gin’ written in a swirled font with a green-lined sketch of a cottage underneath.

“That’s the gin Tuppence drank,” she whispered, pressing the bottle into Sherlock’s waiting hands.

“Harrington House,” he read off the label. “They’re a big drinks company, they wouldn’t—”

“Unless, of course, it’s a cover,” Molly said, her voice rising. She cleared her throat and rounded on the dark of the shed. “Father Abbott!”

A risky move, admittedly. Yet, into the moonlight shuffled the short figure. The hat and scarf were removed, the scarf falling off his thin, elderly neck towards the ground and the hat revealing wisps of white hair.

“Well done, my girl,” Father Abbott said with a sigh. Retrieving his glasses from his shirt pocket, he put them on and folded his hands in front of him. He stared at the both of them, his eyes flickering from one to the other. “What gave me away?”

“The tale of the ghost,” Molly proclaimed.

“Mm, yes.” Sherlock stepped forward to stand beside her. “Did wonder why a priest would believe in the supernatural.”

“If you’re making illegal gin, it’s a good deterrent,” Molly pointed out. Her attention remained focused on the vicar stood before her.

Sherlock gave a single nod. “True. Not good enough for Tuppence though.”

“Again, true. Sadly true.”

Father Abbott’s brow furrowed. “What? No, Tuppence was in on it!”

Molly blinked.

“Pardon?” she asked, her confusion in exact unison with Sherlock’s.

“She financed the whole thing,” he explained. “The distillery, the machinery, the supplies – all of it – with her savings.”

Molly looked at Sherlock. In one of her gin-related stupors, during one of her dinner parties, Tuppence had let slip to them both about money troubles. And Tuppence, Molly knew, was not a woman who did well in poverty.

“And you agreed to help her?”

Father Abbott sighed heavily. “Yes, God help my soul. She came to me during one of her garden parties – apparently Tommy had told her how much financial trouble the church was having. She suggested the scheme to me, said we would split the proceeds in half – her half to go towards her debts, my half to the church. For a while, it worked.”

“And you used the Harrington House company name to avoid suspicion,” Sherlock said. Father Abbott nodded.

“Tuppence sold it to her friends, claiming to have a friend in London who gave her the stock. Considering the town council and their meddling ways, everyone flocked to her. For a while, it worked like clockwork.”

Molly shrugged her shoulders, nodding. It had struck her as odd that Tuppence, even for a dear heart and society woman like her, entertained as many as up to thirty people at her home in the space of one week.

“But then, I suppose, Tuppence started to get greedy,” she said with a sigh. It was something she had seen before; partners in crime, double crosses.

“No, it wasn’t—” Father Abbott paused. He tried again. “You see, she started to demand more stock. Our turnover wasn’t enough, she claimed. I told her – the distillery wasn’t big enough. If she wanted more stock to sell on, we needed bigger machinery. She refused. And she was always pushing, pushing – in the end, I snapped and we argued, bitterly. Before I knew it, she – she was choking, complaining of her heart. Before I could do anything, she’d collapsed.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Where did you argue?”

“Here.” Father Abbott gave another, heavier, sigh. “We always met here – to hold them in the village would’ve created suspicion.”

Tuppence was not, after all, a church goer.  _Frippery and nonsense_ , she’d said dismissively whenever Tommy tried to coerce her into going. To suddenly become an avid church goer and engage in more than occasional polite conversations with the local vicar would’ve set tongues wagging.

“I couldn’t have anyone discovering the distillery,” An imploring tone seeped into Father Abbott’s voice. “I’d have been – I knew I had to cover it up somehow.”

“So you used the tale of the ghost,” Molly said. “And hoped no-one would ask questions.”

Father Abbott nodded sadly. Sherlock moved forward and took him by his arm. Together, the three of them headed out of the shed, through the forest and towards the police station.

* * *

It was remarkable to observe, how rapidly someone’s attitude to another could change after the revelation of a truth. Before he wept over his dear old Tuppence and told wistful stories of their adventures together, as if he held the weight of the world on his shoulders. When the truth of his wife’s business ventures came to the fore of the village gossip, Tommy became an altogether different creature. He transformed into a lighter creature, laughing often as to his wife’s cunning and whispering that he’d always known, deep in his bones, that she’d be the sort of woman to get involved in that sort of thing. 

In that state Molly left her Uncle Monty’s old friend, taking a lift to the station as payment for her work. The station itself was small, with two platforms and a small station house. Waiting for her train’s arrival, Molly slipped into the tea room and sat herself down at a corner table.

On her arrival to the village of Hemingstone, she’d had in mind an altogether more peaceful holiday. One that involved walks through the village square and attendance at parties, as well as a spot of reading. In her line of work, she never quite got the chance to indulge in the art (after all, when one was being chased by angry criminals, one did not pause to read the latest E.M. Forster) and Hemingstone had seemed the right place for a good catch-up. A pity that her hosts—or one of them—had turned out to be more layered than first thought. So, with her suitcase tucked underneath her chair and a book open in her lap, Molly sipped at her tea and began.

She got as far as the first sentence. The distraction served to be the whistle of the train.

“Horsefeathers,” she muttered. It was always when one wasn’t in a hurry that the trains were on time. Book in hand, she grabbed her suitcase with her other and hurried from the tea room. A helpful guard smiled when she flashed her ticket at him and he held open the train door for her, delaying the blow of his whistle until she had climbed on board. 

The door closed behind her, she walked quickly down the aisle with her eyes on her ticket. Compartment 3A, so it said. She looked up. 4B, 4A, 3B— she stopped. Putting her hand on the door, she slid open the compartment.

It took all of her etiquette lessons not to swear again. Sherlock sat on the compartment’s right side, beside the window. His legs were propped up on the opposite window seat, left ankle crossed over the right. His dark blue suit was a stark contrast to the red velvet that covered the seats. The collar of his coat was folded up. He dozed with his head lowered and his hands folded against his lap. His suitcase, an ugly brown item, was shoved in the shelf high above his head. Making sure to make as little noise as possible (she was not in the mood for yet more debate), Molly reached up onto the tip of her toes to heave her suitcase upwards.

Behind her, Sherlock lazily opened one eye.

“If you’re struggling with that, you could just ask.”

She promptly abandoned her quest to put away her suitcase and looked at him. His eyes, sharp enough to suggest he’d never been sleeping at all, glinted. Keeping her attention steadily on him, she gripped at the handlebar underneath the shelf and hauled herself up to stand on the seat beside him. Looking away from him, she heaved her suitcase up and onto the overhead shelf. Pleased, she aimed a smirk in his direction. He shrugged in reply and lifted his legs off of the opposite seat. Clearly a silent invitation. She stepped down from the seat and let go of the handlebar. Brushing at her skirts, she picked up her book and sat down, settling against the plush red velvet. Crossing her legs, she opened her book and continued to read.

She got as far as the first and second sentence. Slamming her book shut with one hand, she leaned forward.

“You’re moving.” She spoke bluntly, tucking her elbow onto her knee and her chin against her palm. He smirked. 

“I am.”

“To – 221b Baker Street. Is that right?”

“Yes.” He straightened up. “Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

She didn’t provide him with an answer. “I thought Major Watson was happy to have you staying with him.”

“He was. He isn’t now. Mary is pregnant.”

“Oh.” She mellowed, leaning back into her seat. “Well – I should offer my congratulations to her. When I get back.”

“Mm.” His blue-green eyes locked on hers. His look was playful, teasing. “Society duties, after all.”

Molly swallowed a smile. She shifted a little in her seat and felt the weight of her book.

“You insinuated—”

“No I didn’t.”

“You  _did_ ,” she insisted. “And I just thought I should make it clear. I – wouldn’t have.”

“You wouldn’t have what?” He was a master at playing the innocent party. She rolled her eyes briefly.

“Just that. I wouldn’t have. That is, if you’d—” she hesitated for the right word, “ _insinuated._ ”

Though his smile remained, the playful look dimmed slightly. “Then I won’t – insinuate – in the future.”

The train rocked gently against the tracks, gathering pace as they left the train station. Tendrils of white smoke trailed past the window. 

“Good.” She opened her book and tried to focus on the words in front of her. All of a sudden, she was quite aware of just how  _present_  he was, sat opposite her with his eyes on her form. She swallowed thickly. “Glad we solved that.”


	195. Pillow Fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the-sapphiresky asked: "Sherlock and Molly have a pillow fight." And somehow the fill turned into a post-HLV thing, set between the AGRA revelation and Christmas. Quite close to Christmas, in my head.

She hadn’t spoken to him in months. John was mostly silent, save for the occasions when he managed to stretch to monosyllables. It was, on paper, the best situation. He so often tuned out others, every day of his life, their voices muted and falling into the grey corners of his mind. For a while, the silence – and its isolation – was a relief. 

Once he’d been checked out of the hospital, with instructions for bed rest, the silence transformed. Traffic trickled past the flat, clients came crying into 221b, and distant sirens whirled into his head. London’s pulse, beating over and over on a loop. It had turned into something so—  _normal_. He slept, he worked, he ate to those sounds. The breaks (her laughter, her incredibly inane jokes, her voice) weren’t there anymore, and he felt off-kilter.

Before, he’d never felt the need to use her doorbell. A quick pick of the lock had felt much easier. Less need to wrestle around the usual social ‘how do you do’, and she’d never complained. She’d always greeted him with a smile and an offer of tea. (Coffee seemed to be reserved for special occasions, or certain moments.)

Her doorbell, this afternoon, this grey afternoon, rang harsh. It was a normal sound, not the sort of joke one he’d expected she would have. It didn’t sing an obnoxious song or bark some odd phrase. It trilled one, two notes. The door opened on the second note, and he dropped his hand to his side. His fingers clenched slowly against his palm.

She wore a sweater, v-necked and a man’s. Nicked from an old boyfriend, perhaps. Jeans on her bottom half. Black, ratty, skinny, quite old. Equally old slippers on her feet. Pink, of course. Her hair was scooped back into a ponytail. Her eyes watered, and her cheeks and nose were flushed red. He stood in the doorway, but felt the flat’s heat on his face and his front. 

He blinked. “You’re ill.”

“Seasonal flu.” She fiddled with the tissue in her hand and sniffed. “It’ll pass.”

“Right.” He continued to stand in the doorway, clenching and unclenching his fist. She sighed and stepped to the side.

“Come on. You’re letting the cold in.” She shivered as she closed the door behind him, and sniffed again. She wiped at her nose.

“So what do you want?” she asked, voice thick. “Body parts I expect. Or my help. As you can see – I’m not really up for helping.”

“Neither,” he answered crisply, immediately regretting it. “You’re ill.”

“You’ve said.” She gave a withered sigh and turned left. She shuffled towards her bedroom. Numbly, he followed. She didn’t say anything to the action. They’d got past the stage of awkward questions long ago, back when he’d forced her out of her bedroom and she’d meekly volunteered to go into the spare. (Back when he yearned for the silence she gives him now.)

She clambered onto her bed, a small double made up of white sheets and pale pink blankets, and settled herself against the headboard, legs bent at the knee and her thighs closed together. She picked up one of the pillows and hugged it to her chest. Her brown, watery gaze glanced up at him. Confusion touched at her face.

“You can sit, you know.”

He looked down at himself. In coat, scarf and gloves, he was a ridiculous contrast. He swallowed a laugh and peeled each of his decorations off, pulling at the gloves with his teeth, tugging at the scarf with his fingers and letting the coat fall from his shoulders. He removed his suit jacket as well, folding it over the coat and hanging them off the base of her bed.

It was an odd thing, her bed. It wasn’t a cheap thing, not by any means. It was a creature of metal and thin lines, vines growing around the frame. Unashamedly feminine. The one thing in her flat he’d correctly predicted. Rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, he sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off his shoes. He shifted back and lay out on the bed, tucking his hands behind his head.

For a few moments, they lay together in the quiet. Here, the traffic was muted. The distant sirens were hums.  _Good place to escape from the world_ , she’d told him, on a night when he had fake blood in his hair and on his skin and knew he’d wake up to being a fake.  _Partly why I brought this place._

“I missed this.”

He turned his chin upwards, eyes focusing on her. “What?”

She laughed, a soft sound between them, and shrugged. She picked at the embroidered pattern on the pillow. A rosebud, mostly made up of red and pink thread. She still didn’t look at him. “I dunno.  _This._ ” Another word with too many meanings. Another occasion of him knowing exactly what she meant. She smoothed her fingers over the rosebud pattern. 

“I could never do it with Tom, weirdly,” she said, a musing edge in her words. He risked a smile, the corners of his mouth tilting upwards.

“The ‘lots of sex’ probably got in the way.”

She scoffed and lightly hit his stomach with the pillow. He pretended to be winded.

“I barely touched you!” she cried, tone light with laughter. “Cry baby.”

Him, a cry baby. An impossible notion. “Your concern says otherwise,” he said, shifting to sit up. She rolled her eyes.

“I  _wasn’t_  concerned.”

He arched an eyebrow. “The eyes have it, Molly.”

She responded with a playful  _thwack_ with the pillow to his left side. 

“Is that concern enough for you?” she asked, a triumphant smirk growing onto her lips. Sherlock laughed. The last time he’d indulged in a pillow fight, he’d been a child trying to torment his boring older brother. Even then, it had been a potent distraction. He picked up a pillow from his side and bounced it against her knees.

“Not convincing,” he said, and he laughed again, louder this time, when she hit her pillow against his lower back. He parried with a hit to the upper section of her right arm. It delayed her for a moment, but she came back with a hit to his shins. He distracted her by reaching forward and tickling her feet. She shrieked and tried to scrabble away from him as he delivered two blows to her hip and the side of her thighs. She slid off of the bed and shot to her feet, running around the bed to bestow upon his head with a blow.

“Ow!” He couldn’t hide his laugh as he fought back with a second hit to her hips. She set about his upper arms in earnest. Never once did she seek to hit his chest. Leaving his own pillow to fall to the bedroom floor, Sherlock flailed against her attack, his hands scrabbling at her pillow to block whatever blows she tried to give him. His stomach ached from laughing and he felt beads of sweat on his forehead.

“Something to remember: never pillow fight with a pathologist!” she cried brightly. Sherlock looked at her as she paused, still holding her pillow in her hand. She breathed heavily, her skin now flushed from the exercise. Sherlock grinned.

“But what if the pathologist—” as he spoke, he reached forward and grabbed at her pillow, “doesn’t have their weapon?”

Briefly, she pouted. Sherlock, in reply, turned and threw the pillow away, where it landed on top of her laundry basket at the opposite side of the bedroom. He directed a smug look at her. Molly sighed and threw her arms out in a shrug. “Then the pathologist concedes defeat.”

She sank down onto the bed beside him, folding her arms against her chest and crossing her legs. Sniffing, she gently settled her head against his shoulder.

“Sorry.” She let out a breath. “For slapping you.”

He turned his head, looking directly at her. She craned her neck up, her eyes swinging up towards him. Despite being watery and pink from the flu, they still had the warmth he had always known he could trust in.

His cheeks tingled with the echo of that day. His lips parted. “Sorry for getting high.”

He didn’t put any emotion into the apology. No tears, no pleading. He was, after all, an open book to her. He didn’t need to put on a mask, didn’t need to spell it out. Her eyes narrowed momentarily, caution ghosting into the warmth, but finally she nodded. Once again, she’d read every facet of him. Once again, he’d struggled to feel scared.

“Apology accepted.” She dropped her gaze from his. She shivered, shifting closer. Sherlock felt himself smile as he crossed his legs. Carefully, he lifted his left arm and wound it around the width of her shoulders. He held her close and rubbed gently at her upper arm.

“Magnussen’s still a threat.” He swallowed back whatever else he had to (whatever else he wanted to) say.

Her sigh, short and weighted down with more meaning, broke her silence. “I know,” she whispered, and he let himself shut his eyes to the world. (He could’ve stayed that way all his life.) She breathed through her nose and she cuddled him, her arms around his waist. “I know.”


	196. Standing in the Rain. (University!lock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "Omg omg i've had this prompt in my head for forever. So basically Molly and Sherlock are in uni and they've been daying for a year but lately they've been fighting a lot, so they ask each other for a break. Then a month passes and they really miss each other but they don't know what to do. Obvs sherlock breaks first and tells molly how much he misses her bc he loves her so much."

He half expects it to be raining. In the films, in that stupid sitcom she loves, it rains. It’s the height of summer, supposedly the longest day of the year. The Underground train has rocked its passengers back and forth, commuter sweat cloying the air, orange lights flashing past dark windows, and he’s emerged from the station to a blue sky and sun.

He only wanted five minutes. Five minutes to clear his head, to stop thoughts and feelings bubbling up to the surface. He’d locked his door and headed out into the street. He’d wandered down the street, round corners and across roads. Down the steps towards the station, he’d wandered. Aimless steps that meant nothing. Then he’d got onto the Tube, and things had started to mean a little more.

His footsteps are heavier now. She lives in a busier part of town, hustle and bustle and voices and scents. Things to observe, things to deduce. Usually he’d stop. Pause. His brother ( _he_ ) would call this ridiculous, the whole concept, but it isn’t a surprise. One year, they’d shared together. 365 days, 12 months, endless hours. No wonder he’d tread the familiar path towards her flat. The body learns things after all, remembers things. He remembers her. He finds himself waking in the middle of the night, mind tightly wound with memories. Maddening.

It’s when he reaches her front door that he stops. She pauses too, stood at the top of the stairs and her left hand on her key. Her mouth parts, briefly. But she swallows back and her lips form into a thin line. Of course she would be on her way out.

“Molly…” Her name is unfamiliar on his tongue, bursting out in a low croak. He clears his throat, shakes his head. He repeats her name, the sound clearer in his head.

“Hi, Sherlock.” She mumbles the greeting, her head lowered and her feet scuffing against the stone steps – it’s something forced, something driven by manners learned. He still smiles even though it’s a weak expression, nothing more than a twitch at the corners of his mouth.

“I… I – um.” His features sink into a frown as he speaks (though it’s hardly speaking, more just stumbling – he’s never been a romantic hero) and he sighs, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets and giving up on the sentence. He could just admit that he didn’t want to be here. Admit that it was instinct that pulled him, tugged him, all the way here. Admit it wasn’t his mind that led him here.

Her footsteps sound against the steps, one at a time, quick and fast. She rummages in her bag for something. Her key, he realises with a wry smile. He catches her eye as the realisation shifts towards her. She rolls her eyes and heads back up the steps, but the tips of her ears almost glow pink. She tugs the key from the lock and buries it into her jeans pocket.

“I’ve got a lecture in an hour,” she says rapidly, avoiding his eye and heading back down the steps. “So I really don’t have the time to argue—”

He turns his body as she passes him, walking down the street. He has to shout when he finally gathers the courage to speak. “I –  _miss_  you.”

She freezes. Hand halfway into her bag, hair brushed back into a ponytail, loose blouse moving in the breeze. She turns her head. Her mouth quirks, a small upward tilt.

“I miss you too.” She gives the sentiment so freely, so openly, while he’s stood there struggling to even form a coherent sentence. Only her.

His mouth widens into a smile, something wide and genuine. She returns it, her eyes bright.

Above them, the sky darkens. Hard, grey raindrops splatter against the pavement, against his jacket, her blouse; soaking them both. Their laughter echoes.


	197. Date Night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thenworld wanted someone to do an AU of this: http://thenworld.tumblr.com/post/127091215934/danger-days-of-our-lives-likehemmins-imagine
> 
> That person turned out to be me. I wrote it as a canon AU where it's A Study in Pink and Sherlock and Molly haven't actually met yet.

She’d met him over drinks. Just chatting away in the bar, he’d approached her. Not her normal type – though her type was not exactly something she’d call  _conventional_  – he’d been a ‘jack the lad’, someone cheeky. Someone Meena glanced at over the rim of her glass as she took a sip from her cocktail. In retrospect, she should’ve taken that as not a warning, but a foreshadowing. Sighing, she flipped her phone over in her hands; once, twice. Her phone screen still remained blank. No explanations, no apologies. Nothing thus far.

The restaurant was one he’d recommended. Angelo’s, a quiet restaurant in London, filled with small glass tables for two and jazz that called for a romantic atmosphere. The conversation was minimal, their date booked during one of the ‘quiet times’. “Don’t want anyone disturbing us, eh?” Molly mumbled, an echo of his sentiment hours earlier. She bit at her bottom lip and breathed hard through her nose and tapped her mobile lightly against the table’s surface. She made a show of scanning the menu lying in front of her.

She glanced up for a minute moment, and immediately regretted it. The waitress approaching her had  _that look_  on her face. The look of knowing sympathy as if she knew (of  _course_  she knew, traffic never held somebody up this long).

“Ready to order?” the waitress asked, blonde ponytail bobbing with the tilt of her head and her pen ready against her pad. Molly shoved her phone into her pocket and shrugged, clasping her hands together.

“Just a few more—”

“Sorry I’m late. Got the wrong time. Happens.”

A shadow crossed the waitress’ face and Molly turned her head. Her brows sunk into a brief frown and her mouth parted into a small, hesitant ‘o’. Not Jack. Dark hair, blue eyes, smart suit and shirt covered by a large dark blue overcoat and a navy coloured scarf tied around his neck. Not Jack gave a grin and ducked forward, past the waitress, to touch at her shoulder with his palm (even wore leather gloves,  _definitely not Jack_ ) and he pressed a dry kiss to her cheek. His voice was warm against her ear.

“Just play along.”

Molly swallowed and blinked as he straightened up and settled into the chair opposite her. He reached out, fingers splaying over the menu in front of her and he twisted it around to face him. His thumb settled against his bottom lip, his fingers curled around the edge of his jaw. Words, mostly made up of  _help this isn’t my date_  and  _is this the way I die_ , rolled around in her mind but when she attempted to say them, tilting her head up towards the waitress, the words seemed to come out as nothing more than a confused squeak.

The waitress, staring unabashedly at Not Jack, shook her head slightly and broke into a polite smile.

“So—” she said, swallowing, “Orders?”

“Arrabiata for me,” Not Jack said quickly, and he arched an eyebrow as he looked to Molly. “You?”

“L-lasagne,” she said slowly. It was a surprise she could say anything. The waitress nodded and thanked them. Molly let out a heavy sigh as she moved away. Not Jack remained staring at the menu. His finger traced against the list of side dishes and his full lips thinned in thought.

“Perhaps some—”

“I’m not interested.”

He jerked his head up. His eyebrows lowered into a frown. “In the sides, or—”

“In whatever weird pick-up artist thing you’re doing here,” Molly replied, waving her hands for emphasis.

“Oh. That. You think I’m… hm.” Not Jack leaned backwards against the seat and drummed his fingers on the table. He gave a twisted smile. His eyes flicked over her form. “I’m not interested either.”

Molly blinked. “Um—”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Not disappointed. Just – uh – confused.”

Not Jack shrugged. “What is there to be confused about?”

“Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“No.”

Molly’s shoulders sagged and she leaned forward, tucking her hands underneath her chin, to stare at him. He had a playful air about him, and amusement in his look, but it struck her ( _somehow_ ) that he wasn’t joking after all.

“So – you’re pretending to be my date?” she asked, though from their conversation thus far, she expected a puzzlingly firm answer of ‘no’.

“I’m married to my work.”

That was one way to say it. Molly fixed her attention on the basket of condiments between them. “Why come over here then?” she asked, fiddling with the lid of the tomato ketchup.

“Case,” he answered.

Molly dropped her hand and folded her arms, hugging herself around her waist. “Case? So you’re a detective.”

Not Jack scoffed. His eyes moved towards the window, his attention consistently jumping, flitting over the activity outside. Molly swallowed back a laugh.

“Consulting detective,” Not Jack murmured, glancing towards her. “Only one in the world.”

“But still a detective,” Molly retorted. Not Jack finally paid full attention to her, whipping his head around. His features were stricken, an aghast look on his face. Some breadsticks were stood next to the condiments, something she’d ordered when she’d still had optimism of Jack’s presence (“any minute now,” she’d mumbled to herself, glancing out of the window and still not seeing any taxi), and she took one. Snapping the long, thin bread in half, she took a small bite and chewed.

“There’s a difference,” Not Jack said stiffly, shifting in his seat. “A detective works for the police. I work with the police.”

“I see what you mean,” Molly mused, giving a nod. “Lost count of the amount of times I have to explain the difference between being a pathologist and being a specialist registrar.”

Not Jack’s mouth twitched with a smile. “So that’s what you are.”

“Mm-hm. I guess that doesn’t bother you.”

“Not at all. In fact, I’m in need of a pathologist.”

Molly eyed Not Jack, hard. “Specialist registrar.”

Not Jack’s smile widened into a grin. He leaned forward, holding out a hand. “Sherlock Holmes.”

Molly took his hand and shook it. “Molly Hooper.” 

It was barely a moment later that Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, stopped smiling. Slamming down a couple of £20 notes onto the table, and throwing a quick explanation of ‘case’ towards her, he bolted up out of his chair and ran towards the door. He hesitated as he wrenched open the door, looking over his shoulder towards her. 

“ _Well_?”

Molly jumped out of her seat and thanked her common sense for not letting her wear a dress. Ducking out of the restaurant, she glanced back towards him.

“So, where are we going?”

“Left,” he barked, running down the street. Molly followed. Buried within her pocket, her phone rang. Molly fished it out. Jack’s name flashed up on the screen. Molly let it ring, dropping her phone back into her pocket. On reflection, Not Jack was a much better date.


	198. A Private Tea Party. (Parentlock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> potterlockianegalitarian928 asked: "Sherlolly: A client enters 221b and is sees the famous Consulting Detective having a tea party with his daughter". Somehow this became a stop gap between my two stories [What We Pretend to Be](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1237840) and [The Memory of a Broken Heart](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3638439). Set when Isla is a toddler, about 3 or 4 years old.

London had been begot by a heatwave in recent weeks, a sticky heavy blanket of heat that smothered the city. Sweat beaded on her brow as she stood, dressed in nothing but a light summer dress with her handbag on her shoulder and black hair scooped into a loose bun. She hesitated before knocking, but a woman (elderly with reddened hair, flecks of grey buried within) had chirped a hello on opening the door. She introduced herself as Mrs Hudson.

“What’s the problem, dearie?” she asked, bustling her inside. Swallowing thickly, she explained it all in shaking tones, bringing a photograph out from her handbag and holding it in both hands.

“My name is Kelly Mackintosh. My dad,” she whispered, staring at the photograph. Her brittle accent felt harsh in these cosy walls. “He’s disappeared. A week ago. I want to know where he is.”

Mrs Hudson tutted sympathetically and nodded. “Give me just a minute,” she said, touching at her arm in comfort. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”

She remained in the entrance hallway, wiping at her eyes and watching as Mrs Hudson headed up the stairs. She left the entrance to the upper flat wide open. Distant voices floated through the door.

“What is it, Mrs Hudson?”

“Client. Young girl, Scottish. Very sweet – worried to death about her father.”

“Daddy! Somethin’s going on. Isn’t it?” The lightly-voiced question made Kelly swallow. She shivered, turning her head and glancing back towards the door. The grip she had on her handbag tightened.

“Yes Izzy,” came a low rumble. “Mrs Hudson, send them in.”

Kelly turned her head up and saw Mrs Hudson come back out of the flat and look down towards her. She beckoned.

“He’s happy to see you,” she said. “Come on up.” Kelly gave a nod. Straightening her shoulders, she slid her hand against the stair’s rail and hurried up the steps.

Entering into 221b, she found a small pink table situated by the fireplace. With her back to her, the little girl sat cross-legged at the table. She wore transparent white wings on her back and she a pink fairy costume over jeans and trainers. A plastic silver tiara was nestled in her black curls; long curls which flicked out at the ends. Sherlock Holmes sat in a grey leather armchair, perched on its edge, quietly arranging the plastic tea things set out on the table. He wore a wide smile for his daughter, a smile which grew into a laugh when she suddenly announced that her unicorn was now head of the table, as well as the tea party.

Kelly remained where she was, her fingers clasped around her photograph. Sherlock Holmes glanced up at her.

“What’s the case?” he asked. His daughter happily set about making her unicorn sit comfortably at the table.

“My father,” Kelly explained, clearing her throat. “He’s been missing – just walked out of the house to go to work, but never came back. When I went to the police after three days of him missing, they said they’d investigate, but I haven’t heard anything. And – I was wondering if you could—”

She held out the photograph as she spoke. He barely gave it a second glance.

“I’ll take the case,” he said swiftly, almost dismissively.

“You will? No, wait – of course you will – you’ll let me know?”

He sighed, the sound short and frustrated. “Of course.”

“Are you one of them?”

Kelly turned her head, and found the little girl staring at her. She had a good colour in her cheeks, clean skin, blue eyes bright. Kelly stifled an uncomfortable laugh.

“Pardon?”

“Enemies of the Federation of Unicorns,” Sherlock explained, rising to his feet. He looked towards Kelly. “They’re on a recruitment drive at the moment.”

“Oh, um – no. No, I’m not an enemy of the federation of whatsit.”

The little girl thought for a moment, glancing towards her father until finally, she beamed and gave a nod. “Good!” 

“Yes.” Sherlock sat back down in his chair. “Leave your phone number with Mrs Hudson and I’ll call with any progress. Good afternoon.”

Kelly nodded again, said a quiet thank you, and departed from the flat. She did not stop to say goodbye to Mrs Hudson. Indeed, when she stepped into the stuffy hot air of outside, she turned to her right and broke into a run.

* * *

Turning a corner, she slowed to a stop and let out a relieved sigh. They were still there. The car’s engine still thrummed quietly. Bending down, she knocked on the passenger window. The door unlocked and she opened it, peering into the interior of the car.

“She looks healthy. Happy. She was playing a tea party when I went inside,” she added, folding her arms tight against her waist and tapping her foot nervously against the grey pavement.

The passenger in the car shifted over, towards her. Dressed in a dark grey trouser suit with a crisp white shirt, she smiled and briefly scooped her fingers over her long brown hair before she reached into her pocket.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. Her eyes flitted towards the street corner and for a moment, she almost looked pained. The expression soon disappeared, and she reached into her jacket pocket. She produced a £50 note and tilted her head up, folding and unfolding the money as she spoke. Subconscious habit, Kelly supposed. Happened to everyone.

“How does she look?”

Kelly blinked. “Healthy.”

“No, I want details. Hair colour, height. Body type. Anything…” she lowered her head and her voice dropped to a whisper. A shaking, fragile whisper. “Anything you can think of.”

“Well, uh… hair’s brown. Quite long – almost down to her back. Her eyes are blue – like her dad’s. She was sitting all the time I was there, but she seems tall for her age. Face is pretty round – kind of a sweetheart shape. I think that’s the term. And—” Kelly pursed her lips, eyebrows dipping into a frown, but she shook her head and shrugged. “That’s all I can think of.”

The woman’s smile twitched and her eyes glimmered in the light. They seemed almost wet. “That’s good. Wouldn’t have imagined anything…” She shook her head, a minute gesture, and held out the money. “Here’s the rest. Thank you again, for your time.”

Kelly tucked the money into her handbag. “You’re welcome.”

The woman wordlessly shifted back into the car and closed the passenger door behind her. The car pulled away and left her alone. Kelly zipped her handbag closed and turned around, walking back up the street.

She’d crossed the road, jogging quickly across the zebra crossing, when she felt a hand grip at her elbow. She whirled around, tugged back, and gasped when she saw his face in front of him. Sherlock Holmes wore a look of thunder.

“I don’t care,” his tone was brittle, each word spat out, “how much she gives you. Don’t ever come near my daughter again.”

“She just—”

His jaw tightened. His eyes scanned her. A smirk tugged at one of the corners of his mouth as he stepped forward once. He loomed over her, and his eyes burned. Pain flickered in his features, gone in a second.

“I’ll repeat what I just said.” He spoke with a dangerous quiet, a lethal calm. “Don’t come near my daughter ever again.”

He left her with that, and turned away, crossing the street and heading back towards 221b. Kelly remained where she was, stunned. The door to 221b slammed shut behind him.


	199. Sentimental Origins. (Sherlock Holmes/Irene Adler, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked for an AU of the 2014 film "Love, Rosie". I focused mostly on the first half of the film because I personally felt like the second half of the film is way too messy to untangle into an AU. 
> 
> I also made this Sherlolly and Adlock, as a kind of canon divergence AU. Basically this is an alternate take on the “I am Sherlocked” scene from ASiB.

“Do you know what he calls you? The Ice Man,” her voice is behind him, a soft purr which has proved an enigma for so many frustrating months, “and the Virgin. Didn’t even ask for anything. I think he just likes to cause trouble. Now  _that’s_  my kind of man.”

The voice is tinged with amusement and it’s like a knife to his chest. He takes a breath, opening his eyes, and suddenly the roaring fire in Mycroft’s home turns into something acrid. Something that’s made up of driftwood and the cardboard from empty beer boxes. He’s still sitting in the leather chair, still in the room and still with that wound in his chest, but his mind is floating, catching at sun-soaked memories that are fuzzy around the edges.

He’s wearing a t-shirt now, blue, with a grey hoodie. And jeans. Clothing he abandoned once he stopped being confused, without direction. Once he discovered the importance of armour, self-protection. One arm propping him up and the other around her waist, he smells her hair which is tangled from the wind and smelling of sea salt and pomegranates. (Fruit-scented shampoos are her favourite.) The wind is cool against his bare neck, his hair short. She, Molly, lies against his chest, with her cheek turned towards his chest. Her feet are bare and her jeans are muddied with sand. The sleeves of her cardigan, a knitted concoction of orange, brown and white wool, are chewed at the ends and long enough to come over her knuckles. Underneath the cardigan is hidden a white vest and if someone were to look at the right angle, they’d see the cherry print bra she loves. He turns his head and catches the eye of someone who’s been watching them for a long time. Tom, wrenching his attention up from her, sees him and immediately looks away.

 _“Tom’s asked me to the school dance.”_  Her voice, hesitant and light and warm all at once, echoes in his head. A discordant memory.

 _“Has he now?”_  His drawl drips with remembered sarcasm.  _“Said yes I suppose.”_

In the blur of memory, she scoffs and sits up, turning around until she kneels in front of him. Brown eyes peer at him, and a small finger pokes him in the chest.  _“You know I’m going with you.”_

 _“Nothing’s set in concrete,”_  his teenage self, lost self, says,  _“so my father insists on saying.”_

 _“Yeah, well,”_  she smirks and sits back. She, this small girl on a beach that’s nothing more than an echo but feels as real as the fire in the hearth, is reaching forward and taking his hand. She draws circles into his palm with his thumb. He clenches his fist, momentarily back in the room with his skin tingling, and sinks back into the memory.  _“It’s not like I’ve been inundated with offers. Being a virgin probably has something to do with it.”_

The night of her 18th, she almost wasn’t. The night of her 18th, a night she’s forgotten ( _“it never happened,”_  her vow flashes up in his head), she’d wrapped her arms around him and their noses had bumped cheeks and their lips had touched and he’d been lost in her. In sentiment. And when he’d confessed it, his feelings, to his brother in short mumbled words?  _“Forget it,”_ his brother’s sneer looms over the sun-soaked beach. Youth is still in his features but so is the familiar detachment.  _“Caring is a disadvantage anyway.”_

“And here you are,” Mycroft says, grown up and fitted in a suit, bowing to The Woman. The Woman who’s sparked sentiment he long ago quashed. Or at least, thought he had. “Nicely played.”

His lips tingle with remembering; his hands around her waist, holding her, kissing her, fingers clutching her hair, being with her. It shifts to a night, a recent night, and the images tangle. The Woman, a blue bathrobe. Brown hair between his fingers, Music fading. Breaths mingling. Moments that feel forever.

He finds himself speaking, clear and sharp and present. “No.”

The Woman tilts her head to look at him. “Sorry?”

“I said no. Very very close, but no.” He stands and he walks towards her. “You got carried away. The game was too elaborate. You were enjoying yourself too much.”

He speaks from experience. The Woman smiles a derisive smile.

“No such thing as too much.”

“Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine, craving the distraction of the game – I sympathise entirely.” He’d become wrapped up in the game when he’d left the t-shirts and jeans behind, left  _her_  behind. Easier to lock things up. “But sentiment? Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.”

A motto he’d repeated when he’d left her in that dead-end village, running off to London as soon as he became an adult. (He’d wondered why she’d stayed behind, a minor thought at the back of his head, and she’d given him the answer six years later in the form of a blonde-haired little girl.)

“Sentiment?” The Woman asks. “What are you talking about?”

And for a blink of the eye, he sees someone else standing where she does, 21 years old and confused.

“You.”

“Oh dear God.” The Woman is filled with triumph. “Look at the poor man. You don’t actually think I was interested in you? Why? Because you’re the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?”

He ignores the pang in his chest and drops his voice to a softer tone.

“No.” His right hand wraps around her wrist and he can feel it; her pulse thrums underneath his touch. He whispers into her ear. “Because I took your pulse.”

 _“See?”_  She’s lying in his bed now, 20, her body bare and brown hair longer and glowing from the light of his bedside lamp. She holds his wrist between her fingers, tracing her thumb over the purple veins hidden underneath pale skin.  _“Your pulse.”_

He follows the memory. Speaks the words she imparted to him so long ago. _Elevated_ , she murmurs sweetly.  _And your pupils are dilated. You love me._ “Elevated,” he says to The Woman, his voice soft in her ear and her scent threatening to overwhelm, “your pupils dilated.”

In the past, he’s one year from leaving her behind. In the past, she’s with him and one year from becoming a single mother with another man’s child.

He releases The Woman’s wrist (back in the past, Molly holds on, always holding on, however horrible or cruel his words are) and picks up her phone. The phone that’s itched away at him for months, that he can’t hold without thinking of red lips and black hair.

“I imagine John Watson thinks love’s a mystery to me but the chemistry is incredibly simple, and very destructive.” Once destructive enough to make him abandon a childhood friend; still destructive enough to make him do this. To abandon someone else.

“When we first met, you told me that disguise is always a self-portrait. How true of you. The combination to your safe – your measurements. But this.” He flips the phone into the air with a flick of his wrist and catches it in his palm. He turns back to face her; the pang hits him again. He quashes it. Puts it to one side as he has done all his life. He presses a button and the lock screen flashes up.

“This is your heart,” he murmurs, and he doesn’t allow himself to look away from her. He punches the first character into the phone. “And you should never let it rule your head.”

The triumph has gone, and he sees panic—everything, to tell the truth—in The Woman’s eyes. He presses another button. The second character.

“You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you’ve worked for, but you just couldn’t resist it, could you?”

And for a moment, he could be talking about himself. She is him, after all, as he is her. And the temptation of triumph is always sweeter than the promise of loss.

“I’ve always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage.” He presses a third button. “Thank you for the final proof.”

“Everything I said. It’s not real.” She’s holding his hand, staring at him, and speaking in a whisper. “I was just playing the game.”

“I know.” He pulls his hand free (he hangs anymore, he’ll go back, back to the sentiment he escaped when he left that dead-end village) and types in the fourth character. He feels his mouth twitch. A slip. His jaw tightens. “And this is just losing.”

Tears fill her eyes as she stares at the lock screen. She thought he’d never figure it out. He hands the phone towards Mycroft.

“There you are, brother. I hope the contents make up for any inconvenience I may have caused you tonight.”

“I’m certain they will,” Mycroft replies.

He turns and makes to head out of the room, hands in his pockets.

“If you’re feeling kind, lock her up.” The pang hasn’t left him, hasn’t abated. He hoped it would. “Otherwise let her go. I doubt she’ll survive long without her protection.”

There’s a bitter aftertaste to his words which he didn’t expect. The Woman stares at him. Anger mixes with her dread.

“Are you expecting me to beg?”

“Yes.”

“Please.” The Woman sounds like she’s choking on the word, but has no choice other than to utter it. He doesn’t move. It’s another similarity to her. They share a lot of those, he thinks. Not surprising. One of them created sentiment within him; the other brought it out.

“You’re right.” The Woman’s voice turns small. He makes himself look at her, though looking at her makes it all real. The present, the past, is all real and crystalline, with sharp shapes and bright colours. And it’s made that way just by looking at her. “I won’t even last six months,” she admits.

 _You can’t – you can’t do that. We’ve, I’ve… I need…_ Faltering words, fallen on deaf ears. He’d moved to London barely a day after she’d uttered them.

“Sorry about dinner.”

He walks to the door, and feels her eyes on him until he shuts the door.

* * *

She’s been taken away now. Mycroft, it turns out, wasn’t feeling kind. He never does. Not when the risk of his beloved country is at stake.

He has, at least, managed to steal the packet of cigarettes from Mycroft’s coat pocket on his way out. He almost feels like a kid again, sneaking a smoke on his older brother’s front porch. But then the door opens behind him, and he isn’t a kid anymore. Back in those days, he’d have managed to hear Mycroft coming and hide the cigarette.

“Harsh words you bestowed on Miss Adler,” Mycroft says silkily, coming up to stand beside him. He looks at him. “Any reason?”

“Why should you care?”

“I don’t.”

“Hm, yes,” he mutters and he tips his head up, gazing out at the sky. It’s clouded tonight, the cold something visceral that reaches to the tips of the fingers. “Doesn’t do for a politician to care, does it?”

“Do you think, perhaps – it was old wounds?”

A space inside his chest hitches and he whips his head towards his brother. He glares. “No.”

Mycroft chuckles, though it’s a hollow sound without mirth. “And here I was thinking I’m the one who deals in lies.”

He drops the cigarette from between his fingers onto the ground. He grinds into the stone with his heel and can feel his brother watching him. Flipping his collar up, he heads down the steps onto the pavement.

“Sherlock.”

He stops, glowering, on the call of his name.

“Karachi. There’s a terrorist cell that is very eager to capture Miss Adler. I expect they’ll be the first to snap her up.” Mycroft pauses. “Oh, and by the way – Sophia’s doing well. Apparently she’s top of her class.”

“Why should I care?” Sherlock asks, shrugging. Mycroft smirks.

“Well, you are her godfather. There are certain responsibilities that come with the title.”

With that, Mycroft departs back into the house. He only pauses to brush the stray cigarette ash off the porch with the side of his foot. The front door locks behind him.


	200. Defiance. (Soulmates AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "I do not know if you are still accepting prompts if so how about a sherlolly AU soulmates". I decided to approach this AU from a different angle.

The rain comes in fits and spurts and she sits on the bare window seat. Fingernails clink against the chipped china of the mug. She sniffs. Her vision blurs. She can’t stop it. 

Tears well and wet her cheeks and she can’t stop them. She wants to, she needs to but— she brushes her cheeks with the sleeve of her jumper but the tears come faster than she can erase them. She can’t swallow them back, she can’t, her heart is in her throat and she’s choking. 

Tea splashes on her legs, soaking through the thin pyjama material and she swears, putting the mug to one side. The tears still come as she wipes. God, she must look a sight sat here, all loose hair bun and glasses and baggy clothes, with tea on her clothes, tears, and rain on the window. She laughs. It’s a thick messy sound without direction.

“You’re – you’re crying.”

She looks up.

He’s here and he  _shouldn’t_  be here. But he, he… She shakes her head. “Yeah,” she whispers, eyes still wet, and she feels a ghost of a smile at the corners of her lips. He stands in her doorway, hands folded behind his back with his coat and scarf thrown on, and that familiar stoic look on his face. It only slips when he fully looks at her. Probably takes him a lot to do just that. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing.

And suddenly he’s moving forward, footsteps on wood, and she parts her mouth, though whether she’ll tell him to leave or stay is something undecided. He answers her unspoken question (the question she can’t ask) by cupping her cheeks with gloved hands and smothering her with the warmth of a kiss. Hungry, needy, wanting. Too brief. She’s always wanted to cling to him. To spend a little more time with that brain, his heart that she can feel underneath her palm as she presses her hand to his chest and pushes him away.

“We can’t.”

“We  _can_.” His words are desperate enough to match his kiss. To match his whole being. She wants to tell him all over again what he’s heard a hundred times. From his brother, from John, from anyone prepared to tell him. Tell the both of them. (She’s just as stubborn as he is.) Neither of them have it, they’ve always been weird, been  _odd_. Odd isolated things with empty skin. She’s been happy about that in the past, been content to be passed over in favour of the ones who had already bloomed and were already happy. They’d never been medieval enough to emphasise the importance of a romantic soulmate over a platonic soulmate. But when she’d got neither, something was obviously wrong with her. A broken chain in her genetics, seeding through her body and making her, well, odd.

He still holds her face, and his right thumb strokes the hollow of her cheek. She breathes out into the silence and she reaches out. The fingers of her left hand curl around his wrist. His pulse thrums underneath her touch.

“We can,” he repeats, tone heavier now, and he sinks to his knees. “I don’t – care.”

Her heart sinks. She knows he doesn’t care, she feels the same. She wants more than anything to scratch out tradition, to ignore generations that have come before because how can she still be plain, still be empty, when she feels like this, when she feels so attached to him, as if there’s a string between them that forever links them. She could cut it again, like she tried to do, but he’ll keep coming back. He’ll keep pulling back and so will she. There’s a myth about that, a tale of a long red thread which links lovers together, over hill over dale, through forests and rivers, between countries and continents, and she wishes it were true. Then perhaps she could silence the disbelief in people’s tones, ignore their raised eyebrows and unconvinced sighs. She would have evidence, and there’s nothing more believable than evidence. More’s the pity.

“Sherlock—” She murmurs his name and it’s not a plea in her voice, just a call to reason. She wants it to fall on deaf ears and it does. It makes her hate this all the more.

“I don’t care about patterns or meanings or soulmates, Molly. I never have. But I…” He tips his forehead against hers, his right hand moving up to sink into her hair and he clings. She clutches his wrist tighter. Breathes harder. “I care about you.” He bites out the words. “Like no-one else I’ve ever met.”

“That doesn’t matter. I don’t matter.”

“You do,” he replies, a fierce demand for her to see sense. “You do matter. More than – all.”

She breaks into a smile. Her voice is a hoarse whisper that shakes. “All?” He’s so willing to break the rules for her, the rules that they’ve been brought up on, as if it’s as easy as ripping a piece of paper in two. Not a surprise. It’s even easier for her.

She lets go of his wrist and she can feel their breaths mingle. She swallows back a laugh as she rests her palm against his cheek. She’s had him so many times, in this bedroom, in his room, in other rooms in other places. It’s only now that she’s scared to touch him, now when the contact matters, now she knows how much she needs him. She needs him just as much as he needs her.

“I love you.” The sentiment only takes a breath and somehow, it’s a complete understatement. Those three little words aren’t enough to tell him, convey to him, the depth of it. Her cheeks are wet and she tilts her head up and kisses at his forehead. His curls are tangled and damp from wind and rain. She lowers her hand and she cups at his neck. He leans closer, breaths slow and hot on her skin and she speaks again. “I love you so much, Sherlock.”

He breaths hard through his nose as his eyes flutter closed. “I know.”

“Do you think we can do it?” It’s a scrap of hope. Perhaps they can defy convention, build a life together—he thrives on defiance, and maybe that’s why she’s so scared. The realisation makes her blink and for the first time she looks at him properly. Not with fear of the possibilities or thought of consequences. She looks at him and sees him staring back at her with a determination that could only belong to him. She’s scared because this kind of defiance (against society, against normality) is part and parcel of who he is. He does this every day. She doesn’t have to matter, she could just be another experiment, another way to earn his brother’s scorn. That’s a thought, a question, which has always chipped away at her. For all the time she’s known him.

“I don’t know,” he confesses, “but I – I want to try.”

He breaks into a smile. He’s honest when it matters and God but it matters right now. That’s what she knows of him. The rain continues but the cold is gone when she reaches forward and winds her arms around his shoulders. He holds her as tight as he can. The warmth of him surrounds her. 

For the first time in what seems like forever, she’s happy and the world can go hang.

 


	201. Dedicated Father-to-Be. (Parent!lock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sherlolly29 asked: "Molly is craving the weirdest kind of food combination. Since Sherlock is a very hands-on father-to-be, he taste all of them first, before giving them to Molly. A bit of Warstan seeing Sherlock doing this would be great too." I didn’t manage to fit Warstan into the mix sadly, but I did fit in a stupid amount of parentlock fluff.

The first Molly knew of a visitor into her peace was the sensation of a hand placed on her belly. Laid back on the sofa, Molly opened one eye and turned her head downwards. The hand, small with thin fingers, clenched into a fist and clutched a little at her t-shirt; loose and baggy and full of holes as it was. Molly smiled and carefully shifted up, propping cushions up against the small of her back.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Poppy said with a shrug, letting go of Molly’s t-shirt and sitting on the sofa. She swung her legs and glanced towards the kitchen, her mouth thinned in thought. Molly sighed softly. She knew her daughter too well to know when she was lying.

Wordlessly, she reached forward to take hold of Poppy around her waist. Gently she moved her daughter onto her lap.

“Something is,” she murmured as she reached up, drawing her fingers against Poppy’s short brown hair. With a sigh, she cuddled Poppy close and rested her cheek on top of her hair. She’d inherited Molly’s colour, but the curls and the length was her father. From the kitchen, the clatter of plates gave Molly the answer.

“Aha,” she said, a smile growing on her lips. “I see it now. You’re worried – aren’t you?”

“No!” Poppy protested, but the tone didn’t take. “I just – I keep wondering – if Dad was this worried when you had me?”

“Of course he was,” Molly said, and she smiled wider. Leaning close to Poppy’s ear, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “He even carried a walkie-talkie around – just so we could communicate in an emergency!”

Poppy burst into a giggle, earning a strange look from her father who entered into the living room with a plate in his hand. Poppy grimaced when she caught sight of the food offered.

“Why would you eat  _that_?” she asked, poking at the peaches slathered in chocolate sauce that covered the plate.

“Pregnant women have craved stranger things,” Sherlock remarked as Molly took the plate and began to eat. Poppy’s grimace deepened, which was in contrast to Sherlock’s proud smile when he looked to Molly.

“And you  _tasted_  that?” she said, looking to Sherlock, who raised an eyebrow though his smile remained.

“That over ice any day, Poppy.”

“ _Ice?!_ ”

Molly shrugged. “Only for a few weeks. It was just because I had an iron deficiency.” She grinned at Sherlock before she looked back to Poppy. “Soon got that sorted though.”

“And it gave my teeth a break,” Sherlock said with a smile. “That’s for certain.”

 


	202. The Distracted Groom. (Victorian!lock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "That 'Love, Rosie' prompt that anon sent you really made me crave a 'The Decoy Bride' au for some reason." Victorian!lock was what came into my head when I read that prompt. (Don't ask me why, it's how my imagination works). I also didn’t really use the plot of the 2011 film, but more the premise.

For the occasion of the wedding, the venue chosen was a place that would’ve made their late mother proud. Rolling hills of fresh green surrounded the church. Encased within the ancient walls of the stone church were decorations well suited to a man blessed with a full purse. Extravagant garlands of white blossoms and evergreens lined the walls and a golden velvet veil covered the high altar.

The groom stood before it, more aware of the faces stood row by row in the church than he’d have cared to be. In vain, he struggled not to let his mouth hang open. His collar and tie felt, quite suddenly, too tight around his neck. His cheeks grew rather flushed.

His bride, too, could not hide her displeasure. Her dress, high-necked and flowing, was starkly pale against the pink that grew up from her neck and onto her cheeks. Her fingers were clutched tight around her bouquet, white roses bloomed. She oscillated a little, and her veil moved with her head as she glanced over her shoulder at the bridesmaids stood behind her. It was as if she were as desperate to move as he was, but found herself weighed down by the force of the eyes upon the both of them.

He cleared his throat, briefly miming a cough, and his eyes swivelled towards his brother. In reply to the wordless question, his brother tilted his head and raised his eyebrows; the pretence of perfect innocence. Reluctantly, he looked away from his brother and back towards his bride. The vicar, who wore a look of innocence not too dissimilar to his brother’s, glanced towards him.

“Well, Mr Holmes?” The vicar blinked. “Shall I – continue on?”

It was one thing to be surprised at the identity of one’s bride—another entirely to reject them outright. For a moment, he considered the implications of choosing the latter. There would not be much, not to him. It would simply reinforce the reputation he already had. A scoundrel, with little to no thought for women, and an unending scope of ideals—but no ideals that could lead towards total commitment. For a moment, having such a reputation did not bother him. Gentlemen, former gentlemen, had retired to the country for far worse.

“Yes. Do, um, carry on.”

If it were any other circumstance, any other woman, the need for reputation would’ve held out and won him over. Unfortunately, in this circumstance, it was not his reputation he needed to be concerned about.

* * *

Once the ceremony and all its trimmings was complete, they took the celebration to her home. Breakfast was served, a feast of game, fish and cold meats, but the two of them, even when sat at the bridal table, ate in fits and starts—a scrap of meat, a gulp of wine. In between graciously accepting congratulations from his father and her parents, and exchanging grating conversation with more extended relatives, there was barely enough time for them to eat more. There was also the element that neither of them, sickened to their stomachs by the unpleasant surprise, felt particularly hungry. He heard his bride quietly beg her mother for a little entertainment, “perhaps some dancing”, something to distract her; if he hadn’t been struck so dumb by the fact of what had taken place, he would have readily agreed.

Once breakfast had been taken, they had to suffer through the agony of the speeches. Her father went first, and though he rambled, it seemed to be that his two main themes were that of tradition and the marvellous joy of second chances. Sherlock delicately itched at his collar and prayed for John’s speech to remain short. To his ever existing despair, it didn’t. John seemed almost revelling in the fact he had been allowed to stand up and speak. Jokes were made, and brought a laugh out of most people. Sherlock eyed his bride. She had spent much of John’s speech staring up at the man in question, listening intently. It was, as Sherlock discovered when he glanced downwards and saw her folding a napkin over and over between her fingers underneath the table, an entire fabrication. Briefly, he envied her restraint.

When the speeches finally ended, and the wedding party began to fall back into polite conversation, Sherlock muttered his excuses and rose to his feet. Darting out of the path of friendly aunts and talkative uncles, he eventually found his destination. His brother was stood by the hearth with a flute of champagne in his hand and a blank superior look on his features. Much like he had when he had seen his bride, Sherlock resisted the urge to punch that same look off of his brother’s face.

His brother arched an eyebrow. “Sherlock. Enjoying the festivities?”

“We need to talk, brother,” Sherlock said, glowering, “in private.”

A distinct pause preceded his brother’s reply. A singular, deepened, glare from Sherlock initiated it. Sipping back the rest of his champagne, Mycroft set the glass down on a cabinet behind him before he turned back to his brother. “I believe the garden is rather quiet.”

* * *

The garden was small, though beyond the low stone walls that surrounded the garden, the distant landscape of Suffolk was enough to take a man’s breath away. Sherlock ignored both the sights of the landscape and the sights of the landscaped flowers, freshly planted for the wedding. His hands by his sides and clenched tight into fists, he paced against the dewy green grass.

“You lied to me.”

“It was necessary.”

“You led me to believe I was marrying someone else!” Sherlock snapped. “The daughter of Lord and Lady Hawkins! Hawkins, Mycroft! A self-made family of some wealth with whom you wished to do business!”

“Lower your voice, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s tone was irritatingly laconic. “This is a wedding reception.”

“Yes! Mine!” Sherlock growled and he stopped, whirling around to face his brother. “I agreed to marry the daughter of the Hawkins family.”

“Think of it as a—” Mycroft grew quiet, searching for a word, a phrase. “A decoy bride.”

“A decoy bride?!”

“You’d never have married her otherwise.”

Sherlock shook his head. “That doesn’t—”

The back door of the house, stood behind Mycroft, opened and John stepped out. Underneath his horrid moustache was an even more horrid gurning smirk.

“That doesn’t make your actions right,” Sherlock finished, patently ignoring the presence of the other man he wanted to punch. John came to a stop beside Mycroft and folded his hands behind his back. Still with his inane grin, he rolled onto the balls of his feet and rocked back. His smirk widened.

“Things going well?”

“Very smoothly,” Mycroft answered. Sherlock snorted and resumed pacing back and forth across the width of the garden. He felt John and Mycroft’s eyes follow him.

“I want a divorce,” he said into the silence.

“You’ve only been married to her, what, three hours?” John asked, disbelieving. 

Mycroft gave a single nod. “Divorces aren’t given on a whim, Sherlock.”

“I’ll divorce her on grounds of non-consummation.”

Mycroft hummed thoughtfully and tapped at his bottom lip, tucking his other hand into his trouser pocket. “Is that entirely wise?”

Sherlock paused. He slid his hands into his pockets, and continued to pace. “Someone else can marry her. Have children with her. Make a family. I’m not interested.”

He had tried once before. Gone through the whole concept of courtship, her mother their chaperone and this garden, those hills beyond the fence, their path on endless walks. He’d once thought, when he’d been younger and greener, of marriage as an attractive concept. Especially with her as his wife. But then he’d bottled it and run off to London and left her alone for six years. He’d have made it to seven if it hadn’t been for the wedding—or indeed, Mycroft’s business ventures.

“Your words say different,” Mycroft replied. “No-one’s mentioned children, Sherlock. You could’ve just had a – marriage of convenience? Yes I believe that’s the term. No need for children there.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“There’d always be a need for children,” he muttered. “You and Father and your bloody ‘the Holmes line must continue’.”

“Anthea and I already have one child, as you well know, and she is expecting another. The Holmes line is perfectly safe.” Sherlock did not need to listen hard to hear the tinge of arrogance that invaded his brother’s tone. “Your marriage to Miss Hooper was only arranged so the merger could take place.”

“What about Hawkins?”

“Established money – which Lord Hooper has – is better than self-made money,” Mycroft explained. “Far less of a risk.”

“Any sensible businessman knows that – we are in the 19th century after all,” John interrupted, earning a nod from Mycroft for his trouble and a derisive scoff from Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed and stopped pacing. Turning, he advanced towards the back door, barging past his brother and his groomsman. “Marriage of convenience or not,” he said, opening the door. He stopped to glare behind him at the two men, “I’m still divorcing her.”

“Give it a month,” Mycroft advised. “See how you feel then.”

“And if I still—”

“I’ll have my lawyer grant you a divorce there and then,” Mycroft said with a nod. Sherlock’s jaw tightened and his feet shifted against the grass.

“Fine.” He spat out the agreement. “I’ll give it a month.”

The back door, as he entered back into the house, slammed behind him.

* * *

In the quiet following Sherlock’s angered departure John’s stomach rumbled, the effects of such a large breakfast. Mycroft eyed him contemptuously before he turned his attention back to the landscape, which had grown even greener in the approaching afternoon.

“So.” John soundly cleared his throat. He glanced back towards the house. Through the windows, he saw that Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. He looked towards Mycroft. “When do you think they’ll realise there’s no merger?”

“I give it two months.” Mycroft’s mouth widened into a smirk. “More than enough time.”

 


	203. One Day, We'll... (One Day AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> likingthistoomuch asked: "Considering all the movie prompt fills, how about One Day?" If I had the time, and not so many projects hanging over me, I’d make this a full story filled to the brim with angst, fluff, a bit of smut and moments of longing – but for now, alas, I can only do this condensed version.

The raindrops were rivers, slipping and sliding down the windows. His knuckles were white against the steering wheel, chalk white, and his brown eyes had hardened; away from that usual soft, well-mannered exterior. ‘Accountant looks’, her mum had called them, first time she’d seen him. He turned his head and focused those middle class features (warm brown eyes, thin mouth turned down) on her. She sighed and moved, shifted away from the disapproving look. His knowledge seeped through him and transformed, transmogrified into the shapes of white knuckles on the wheel and sunken shoulders and sharp eyes. And she was the cause. She shut her eyes and pressed her temple to the cold of the car window. Her breath touched at the glass, crystalline clouds formed against rain. The seatbelt, a diagonal line of grey slashed across her neck and chest, bit and nipped at her skin.

“What did you think?” He nodded, his head jutting back. She sat up and her fingers clung against the seatbelt, wrapped around the material and she squeezed it tight in her palm. She lifted her gaze and looked out of the window, down the path, but saw nothing except autumn. Golds, yellows, reds. The red brick of the manor, only recently licensed for weddings, flashed through the tangled undergrowth.

“I liked it.”

Tom rose an eyebrow, but there was little mirth in the action. He still carried that look.

“That the best you can come up with?”

“Yeah,” she breathed and she leaned back in the passenger seat. “For the moment.” In the space of the wing mirror, the manor flickered and faded from her view until all she could see was gold.

* * *

She slept for the rest of the journey. The sounds of London woke her. Buses, cars, motorbikes, conversation. She sat up and shook her hair from her collar, the grey and blue skyscrapers of London towered above her. For a moment, she smiled.

“Molls, I’ve – I’ve been thinking.”

Her smile faded as he glanced at her. It took him a brief scan of her before his mouth tilted up in a smile. The look in his eyes stayed the same—blank, middle class (muted) acceptance.

“You don’t want to get married. Not to me. Do you?”

She lowered her head, closed her eyes. An unsettling sensation grew within her, a prickle that started on her skin but burrowed underneath, settled into her nerve endings and her bloodstream. It pulsated around her body and her mind, a static echo in her brain, before it settled into her heart. She breathed. Her heart felt heavy with the sensation.

“No,” she mumbled. He nodded and drove deeper into the city, following the flow of traffic.

“Thought so.”

“How?”

“Just a – feeling,” he admitted. “You know those kinds of feelings you get sometimes? Like, you can’t place them—”

“I know them,” she said, her words short. Now it was out in the open, she just wanted it all to be over. Tom turned the car away from the main road onto the more narrow street roads. She focused on her feet, tucked tightly together in the depths of the footwell, and settled her hands into her lap. She tucked her fingers against the ring on her finger. She’d never identified that ring as ‘hers’; never thought of Tom as hers either. Just another part of her life. She’d kidded herself that it was healthy. But even in the healthiest of relationships, people still shared themselves. They were independent from one another, they had their own lives but they still had a little bit of themselves in the other. She’d joked, in the past, that her parents had been joined at the hip—never to be separated. 

She’d had that too. A boy who helped her lose her job in a rubbish bookstore-cum-internet café in the 90s; a boy who, high on the need for drugs, had broken in the flat of his one friend and stolen her jewellery but left her computer because he wanted her to complete her Master’s; a boy who she didn’t recognise in the middle of a nightclub and had kissed on impulse, only to find out William was no longer around, but had grown into a man called Sherlock Holmes. A man who had helped her get a job when she’d strayed off the path (some kind of recompense, a repayment of a debt), who had whisked her off to Edinburgh on one of the worst days of her life. Twenty years, she had known him. She’d thought the thread, the path, that always led back to him would fade or snap or break. One day.

“You don’t light up.” Tom spoke with a sigh and drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. She frowned.

“What?”

“Not when I walk in the room. Not when anyone does, really. Except for him.” He flicked on the right indicator and pulled up. Molly finally looked up out of the car window. The roof of her mouth grew dry.

“Tom—”

“What did you expect? When you introduced me to him? Did you expect me not to see it, Molls?”

Her stomach felt bottomless, hollow, but her heart was fit to burst. Even after twenty years, changing addresses, adventures, arguments, partners and exes. Her heart never broke. Not even through the worst of times. It just continued to beat and thrum, over and over; for him.

Her eyes focused on the door beyond the glass. Her mouth twitched with a smile.

“I thought I’d given him up.” She spoke to herself more than Tom, and he—with all his middle class niceness and accountant manner—said nothing. Her fingers hovered over the ring. She took a grip over the white gold and the diamonds, and pulled it free. Tom outstretched his palm and his fingers curled over the ring.

“I’ve hurt you, haven’t I?” she asked. He shrugged and slid the ring into his trouser pocket.

“I’ll get over it. Find someone else.”

She ducked forward and kissed his cheek. A light peck, one shared between friends. Something they always should’ve been. She leaned back and gripped at the door handle. The passenger door swung open and she climbed out. Hurrying across the quiet road, she rapped twice with her knuckle against the door. She never liked using doorbells.

The door opened, and from atop her father’s shoulders, Sophie burbled a greeting. His greeting was quieter, more stilted. Putting his daughter down, he murmured an instruction to her, jerking his head towards the stairs. With a nod of her head, Sophie hurried back up the stairs.

His hand rested on the door handle as he turned back towards her.

“Got her for the weekend.”

“I know.” She swallowed back a smile and folded her arms against her waist. “I’m, uh – I’m not engaged anymore.”

Her announcement was too blunt, too rushed, too eager. He smiled all the same. Her lips broke into a grin and a nervous laugh burst from her.

“Tom, he – he broke it off. Figured out we wouldn’t work. How could we, really?”

“Molly.” Her name, sombrely spoken. Her breath hitched, her words paused. She tilted her head up to look at him.

“Sherlock?”

“We – we promised we’d always be friends.”

A promise made on the morning after their graduation and a one-night stand. She’d done it because she was lonely, her family not there because they were busy. He’d done it because he was bored. Strange, what motives led people into each other’s lives.

She gave a nod and lowered her gaze. She worried at her bottom lip, hugging herself tighter. “We did.”

Her heartbeat surged once more when she heard him step forward onto the pavement. His palm cupped at her cheek and she raised her gaze. His other hand reached up and stroked gently at her hair. 

Tom, she realised, had been wrong about one thing. When she and Sherlock were together, it wasn’t just her who lit up. 

“I’m happy to break that promise,” Sherlock admitted. “Have been for a while, actually. Are you?”

She rose up onto her tiptoes until their lips had almost touched. “Easy question,” she whispered. Tilting her head, she kissed him.


	204. Sherlock's Turkey Dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "Molly's mother remarried an American and now Molly celebrates Thanksgiving with her every year. But she can't fly to visit this year, so Sherlock decides to surprise her with a turkey dinner. You decide how well (or poorly!) it does. Fluff with very little angst, please!"
> 
> Being British, I’ve never celebrated Thanksgiving. All I know is that it involves a turkey and maybe cranberries. As such, I gave the following drabble a sort of 'Coupling' vibe (i.e. a very embarrassing situation which somehow works itself out in the end).

When Molly entered her flat and heard the scraping of chairs and banging come from the kitchen, her first inclination was to sigh. Entering into the living room, she dropped her bag onto the sofa and let her coat drape from her shoulders. The banging happened again. Molly paused and tilted her head, listening. The banging sound was hollow, something knocking against wood. A grunt, low and frustrated, followed it.

“Sherlock?” she called, stepping closer to the living room door.

“Molly!” The bang came again. “Don’t – don’t come in here!”

She took another step into the hallway. She glanced down towards the left side of the corridor. The kitchen door was firmly closed. She narrowed her eyes. More grunts, more bangs. “Um – is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine—”

Molly approached the kitchen door. She hesitated, still listening. Her palm rested against the blue painted wood. Again there was the sound of a bang. “Doesn’t sound it.”

“Just give me a moment, Molly!” Sherlock replied, clearly frustrated. Molly shook her head. She pushed at the door.

“Sherlock, this is ridiculous – I’m coming in—”

“No, no! Molly, n—”

His left hand paused in mid-air, the remains of a panicked dismissive wave. Molly blinked. She folded her arms over her chest. And she blinked again. Sherlock shifted his weight from foot to foot. His blue eyes shifted between her and the dining table. He was half-bent over it, a raw turkey in front of him. A turkey that Toby, sitting on the worktop with his tail swishing, eyed eagerly. The sleeves of his dark blue shirt were rolled up. His right arm, meanwhile, was preoccupied with being stuck within the turkey.

Molly eyed the form of the consulting detective, glanced over his sweaty skin and hair tangled from exertion, and her eyebrows soon disappeared up into her hair.

“Do you two—” she gestured with her forefinger between him and the turkey, “need some time alone?”

Sherlock glowered. “Don’t make jokes, Molly.”

Molly narrowed her eyes. “Sherlock, you’ve got your—”

“I know!” Sherlock snapped. “I _know!_ It’s – it’s not my fault.”

“What – did you trip, or…?”

Pink touched at Sherlock’s cheeks but soon faded. He sighed. “Well, I-I was trying to help you.”

“Help me.” Molly gazed at the turkey for a moment, her lips pursed. The solution soon came, a moment of clarity inside her head that gave her cause to laugh. “You’re – were you trying to make me a Thanksgiving dinner?”

Sherlock gave a one-shouldered shrug. “You couldn’t see your mother this year, thought it would be an appropriate gesture.”

“For what? There’ll be a Thanksgiving next year.” As she spoke, Molly walked forward and pulled out one of the dining chairs, positioning it so she was sat opposite him. She gave a smile and settled her hands in her lap, looking at Sherlock. “Mum’s perfectly understanding of the situation.”

“But it – it’s a tradition,” Sherlock answered, “and you – you value tradition.”

Molly frowned. “When did I say that?”

“You make the bloody trip every year,” Sherlock muttered. Molly snorted a laugh and leaned forward. The pink, raw flesh of the turkey loomed up at her but Sherlock stared calmly at her.

“I make the trip so I can see my mum,” Molly said. “Not specifically to eat Thanksgiving dinner.”

Sherlock gave a dismissive wave with his free hand. “I know that. For God’s sake.”

Molly paused. She straightened up. “You did?”

For a moment, Sherlock appeared to realise what he’d said. He paled.

“N-no.”

“Okay.” Molly stared at the turkey. “I’m guessing there’s another reason for this – situation.”

She held Sherlock’s gaze. His expression turned stony, but soon softened. He lowered his head. His tongue clicked against his teeth.

“I saw an opportunity. To,” he cleared his throat, “cook dinner.”

“You often cook dinner though,” Molly said, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock lifted his head, matching her expression.

“This dinner – supposed to be special.”

Molly’s voice softened. She felt herself frown, and felt her hands fold out onto her thighs. Her palms rubbed at her jeans, her nails digging into the material. “Do you mean—”

“I do mean.”

“ _Special_ special.”

Sherlock gave a single, solemn nod. “I was preparing, and you came in and I—”

Molly’s attention zoomed in on the turkey once more. Her chest felt tight. Whether it was with mirth or shock, she couldn’t tell. “Panicked?”

“Fear makes us do terrible things, Molly.”

Molly’s mouth twitched with a smile, a threat of laughter. Her eyes were still focused on the turkey, and her boyfriend’s arm. The man she’d been dating for four years. “So does love.”

“There is, ah, one problem, Molly.”

She lifted her gaze. Sherlock’s mouth tilted with an apologetic grin. Slowly, he inched the turkey towards her. He carefully sunk down to his knee. Molly swallowed thickly.

It was an unconventional proposal. She could say that much.


	205. (Apparently) Lonely This Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "Sherlolly prompt: Mycroft "let it slip" to Mummy Holmes that Molly is usually alone during Christmas".
> 
> Somehow, I rammed the fluff level in this up to 11.

“Glad you’ve dropped the idea of us attending Christmas,” Mycroft drawled into the phone. He tucked the phone underneath his chin and watched as the coffee machine dripped the last few dregs of a latte into a mug. His mother sighed shortly. The sound of it crackled over the phone.

“After last year, I thought it best,” his mother replied. Not too surprisingly, she still hadn’t quite forgiven either of her boys for the unfortunate ‘incident’. Mycroft scooped up the mug. He swallowed back the hot liquid and he rolled his tongue briefly over his teeth.

“Do you know your brother’s plans at all?”

“Unless there are any criminals working during the holidays, no,” Mycroft replied. He turned. A newspaper was folded out over the worktop. He scanned the headlines. More nonsense about the Chancellor, of course. Budgets always claimed the most column inches.

“How about the others? John, Mary? And – um – who’s that nice detective inspector?”

“Lestrade,” Mycroft said. He picked up the newspaper and sat down at his dining table. With his forefinger and thumb, he skimmed through the pages. “No idea about him. John and Mary – on holiday, not unexpected. Miss Hooper’s usually alone, probably will be again—”

“Molly Hooper? That pathologist girl Sherlock works with?”

Mycroft paused. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards; the threat of a smile. There it was – the change of tone. A sharp lightness that she’d carried on many an occasion. Her meeting Anthea being one. It so often led to plans being made and discoveries being stumbled upon. He leaned back in his chair.

“Yes. Why?”

“No reason,” his mother replied. The air of calm was edged with thought. “Just that it’s not entirely nice to be alone on Christmas, is it?”

“Positively a delight for me,” Mycroft muttered and his mother tutted.

“Behave, Mike!”

“Mycroft,” he corrected, voice like silk, but his mother happily ignored him.

“Well, I’ll have to take her a hamper or something. Help her celebrate. Your father and I are coming up to London in a few days – I’ll drop it off to her then.”

“Do you want her address then?” Mycroft asked and he rose to his feet. As he spoke, he tucked the chair underneath the table and walked out of the kitchen into the hallway. “Anthea can text it to you.”

“No, no, I’ll be fine.” Another change to her voice. A slip from curiosity to something more musing, and he could see the glint in her eye. “Merry Christmas, Mike.”

Mycroft sighed. “It would be nice if you would, for once, call me by my proper name.”

“Oh lord, you’re so fussy,” his mother sighed. “Very well. Merry Christmas, Mycroft.”

Mycroft grinned smugly. “Thank you. Make sure to wish Miss Hooper a Merry Christmas too, won’t you?”

* * *

Carrying the hamper in her arms, Violet inched her way into 221b. Her son had given her the key for emergencies, true, and he had done so extremely reluctantly, but Christmas gifts were often an emergency. Pushing the door shut behind her with the ball of her foot, Violet quickly headed up the stairs. 

On the times she had met the quiet pathologist, Violet had seen the way her youngest son looked at her. More than that, she’d seen the way he looked after her. When he wasn’t with her, he seemed to hover, to hesitate, as if some small part of him was terrified something would go wrong and he wouldn’t be there to help. It was all hidden away, however. Only clues led to the bigger picture. It could be found in minute glances. In the tapping of fingers against a glass. In his short words, so rapidly spoken. Of course, she was not presumptuous enough to believe her son in love with Molly Hooper. There was not enough evidence for that. There was evidence enough, although, for anyone to know that on Sherlock’s part, there was some fondness there. It wasn’t harmless to help her son _research_  into that fondness a little more.

“God! When did you last use these, Sherlock?”

Molly Hooper’s voice. It was distant, muffled but still there.

Violet paused on the stairs. The sound of her son, giving an audible hum, made her growing grin grow still.

“About… 2012.”

“And you didn’t put much effort in putting them back, did you?”

“Didn’t think I’d be using them again.”

Violet carefully eased her way onto the next step.

“Huh – understandable. Oh shit, are you winning?”

“Should be, they’re my lights.”

She reached the top of the stairs. Wordlessly, she set down the hamper and moved towards the door. She turned the handle and nudged the door open. A sliver of yellow light struck across the darkened landing. Violet peered inside. The fireplace was roaring yellow and orange behind a black mesh guard. In front of the fireplace, sat cross-legged opposite from Molly Hooper, was her youngest. Sherlock wore one of his many suits, while Molly wore jeans and what looked to be a gaudy Christmas jumper. Her hair was brushed back into a ponytail. A small Christmas tree stood proud on the desk by the windows.

Between the two of them lay a pile of lights. Her son worked at the lights with ease, untangling each knot of the cable with a flick of the wrist. Molly worked diligently, but her impatience hampered her. If she couldn’t undo one knot, she soon left it with an annoyed sigh and moved onto the next. Sherlock silently picked up where she left off, his smirk growing wide as he glanced up at Molly.

“Aha!” Molly said at last. “Finished!”

“With my help,” Sherlock said smugly and he held up the evidence. Molly gave out a small offended voice. Violet rolled her eyes and shook her head as Molly, apparently in retaliation, held up the lights and got up onto her knees. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“What are you doing?”

Violet opened the door a little wider and went back to the hamper, picking it up. She stood.

“You’ve heard of A Christmas Carol,” Molly said, an even tone in her voice. “Ghost of Christmas Present.” Violet sighed and nudged the door open further, walking into the flat.

“Seems my work is already done!” she said brightly. Molly, now knelt in the seat of Sherlock’s chair and bent over the back of it, yelped and almost toppled forward. Sherlock immediately reached out and grabbed at Molly’s right shin, stilling her. He turned his head. 

“Mummy.” The word toppled out of his mouth, accompanied by a puzzled frown. Violet beamed down at him. She glanced towards Molly, who Sherlock still held by the leg as she fiddled at the back of the chair. Violet decided to assume there was some kind of electrical plug she was trying to reach.

“And how long have you and Molly been going out, Sherlock?” 

The sound of a switch was heard. The lights wound around Sherlock’s head in the form of a makeshift crown light up, sparks of white gold glowing from his dark curls. Sherlock swallowed, blinking. Wordlessly he let go of Molly’s leg. Free from his grip, Molly scrambled back over the chair and sank into the seat, looking to Sherlock.

“Ten months,” he admitted. It was a mumble of a confession.

“Then I suppose you can both have this hamper,” Violet said and she walked forward, bending down to dump the hamper into her son’s lap. “Why Mike couldn’t just _tell_ me, I don’t know – yes he knows Sherlock, probably has done for a while – but I did wonder why he sounded so smug on the phone. I suppose he wanted to give me a fright. Silly boy – always dramatic. Merry Christmas by the way, Molly. And well done with the lights, the pair of you. Those things can be awfully irritating.”

Silence followed her words. Violet turned and departed from the flat, closing the door behind her. Descending the stairs, she grinned widely. At least now she had an excuse to invite them to New Year’s.


	206. Bedroom Confessions. (Sub!Sherlock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sherlollymouse asked: "Still taking prompts? I don't see a lot of subSherlock and was wondering if maybe you'd write Molly discovering he's submissive. Perhaps they've been together a while and he never initiates sex, when he does it "wham bam, thank you ma'am".... until Molly discovers he's kinky and wants to be dominated."
> 
> The following fic contains discussions about BDSM and dom/sub dynamics, but no smut.

“Sherlock…” He hums to show her he’s listening. His arm is wrapped around her waist, and she’s cocooned within him. She should be happy, and to a degree she is. But, as is the way in life, she has questions. Thoughts that nip and nag inside her brain. She sighs and lets the question fade.

“Molly?” She hears him lift his head and feels his breath warm on her neck. His fingers dance over her skin, light soft touches that she leans into. He drops a kiss onto her shoulder. “You’ve got a question.”

Even when they’re lying together in her bed, and she can barely see through the dark, he can still deduce her.

“Okay – this is going to sound weird but—” She gives another breath and he calmly waits. He’s so impatient with the rest of the world, constantly wanting it to catch up. She sighs softly and shifts, rolling over onto her stomach. He moves back to accommodate her, but his hand doesn’t leave her skin. His thumb strokes small circles into the small of her back. In the gloom, she can see him watching her. That small curious frown in his features. She lifts herself up, propping herself up with her elbows. With her forefinger, she draws patterns into her bedsheets as she eyes him. 

“Do you have any fantasies?” She whispers the question, closes her eyes. It’s not a question she should be ashamed to ask, and she’s not. But she doesn’t want to waste it. She thinks she sees his mouth rise with a smile.

“Not a fantasy, no.” His tone is that warm, musing tone but when he lets out a breath and opens his mouth to speak, his breath hitches. His fingers hesitate, hover, against her back. “Molly, I’m a submissive.”

The confession doesn’t hit her immediately. Her reaction is not instantaneous. His hand remains still as she remains quiet. The pieces of the confession are shifting in her mind, slotting together into a complete picture.

“Right,” she says, breaking the silence. She sinks her right hand into her hair, combing her fingers against the tangled strands. “That – that makes sense.”

“It does?”

She smiles at the thread of surprise in his voice. 

“Yeah,” she says with a shrug. “I mean, you were attracted to The Woman—”

“She introduced me to it.”

Another confession, another reaction. This time more immediate. She sits up, the bedclothes sliding down her body until she’s knelt in the bed, naked and staring at him. She switches on the bedside lamp and they’re both bathed in yellow.

“She did?”

Sherlock rolls onto his back and tucks his hands behind his head. “That upset you?”

“No,” she says, and it’s the God’s honest truth. No use lying when your boyfriend makes it his life to see past veiled words. She reaches down and lets her right hand touch at his chest, nails gently stroking over skin. “Just a surprise, that’s all. But why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“It’s not exactly something one brings up on a first date.”

She laughs and lets her hand fall from his chest. She tucks her hands against her hips and raises her eyebrows. “And just when did we ever have a first date?”

He hums, a sound that comes up from the back of his throat, and his right hand settles against her knee. It’s a gesture of comfort, lined with a question. She tucks her hair back behind her ear and stares at the consulting detective lying back on her bed with his hand slowly easing up the path of her thigh.

She feels herself smile. She brushes his hand away from her thigh. Carefully, she leans forward over him and places her arms either side of his chest. He grins up at her, his hand cupping her hip. At least now she can answer his question.

“Just for the record,” she says, “I’m glad it’s out in the open.”

He frowns, briefly. “Why?”

“Well… let’s just say I always felt like you were holding back.”

He chuckles at her answer. “That’s the polite way of saying I was crap.”

She shrugs. “Not _crap_ , just – impatient?”

A diplomatic answer and he knows it. His hand winds round to her back, gently pulling her closer. 

“At least, now it’s out in the open…”—he lifts his head and kisses her—“I can show you what I can really do.”

He lifts an eyebrow. 

“With your permission, of course. I suggest we start with that riding crop hidden under your bed,” he adds.

She gives a wicked, knowing smile. She reaches back and takes a hold of his wandering hand. Gently, she traces her lips over his knuckles and looks at him. Brown eyes holding onto blue. 

“That’s my decision to make, surely.”


	207. Good News.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thenworld asked: "molly tells mycroft she's pregnant?"
> 
> I made this into a tiny spin-off fic of my parentlock story, "Bad Dreams".

His heart is not beyond the realms of friendship. 

And when he first meets Molly Hooper, he decides that, if circumstances had been right, they could’ve hit it off. Instead the circumstances are wrong. When he first meets her, she is angry and hurt and a victim of his brother. It almost makes him wish he hadn’t missed Christmas.

“He’s gone into rehab,” he tells her. She has her arms folded around her waist and is sat at a ratty old kitchen table, wood marked and scuffed by age. Her mother is just outside, hovering. Eavesdropping. (The consequence of maternal concern.)

“I’m guessing Violet forced him into it?” she asks, biting on each word. Mycroft smirks. He’d asked his brother, when he’d dropped him off at that cold white-walled clinic, if he had a message for anyone. His brother had flipped up the hood of his jacket and sloped inside. Head bowed, wanting to get it over and done with.

“Voluntarily, actually,” Mycroft answers. She stops at that, a brief hesitation contained in a single blink. It comes with the risk of a smile, but she expertly swallows it back. Shakes her head and carries on. Mycroft nods once to her and turns away. Her mother, as he opens the door to leave, topples forward a little. She blushes and apologises. A quick glance over his shoulder tells Mycroft that she didn’t see her mother’s social faux pas. So he brushes it off with a goodbye and walks down the hallway, out of the house.

* * *

She re-enters his life through a phone call. He’s stood in the living room of his flat, idly flicking between channels with a glass of scotch tucked against his cheek. When the phone rings, his thumb mutes some snotty MP’s opinion on the afternoon news and he drops the remote down to his side, scooping up the phone.

“Mycroft Holmes.”

“I need your help.” It takes him a moment to place her voice, shaking and threatening tears. He swallows back some of his scotch.

“How so?” He’s half-tempted to ask what his brother’s done now.

He doesn’t have to.

“I’m…”—she takes a deep breath, and the line crackles—“I’m pregnant.”

He has to deal with reality every day. Other people can deliver their opinion on the EU, the Middle East with ease. He has to weigh pros and cons every minute of every day, examine consequences. Dealing with reality never feels as heavy as it does when it’s personal.

“Keeping it?” he asks. She sighs and breathes. She hasn’t begun to cry. She’s as strong as he assumed her to be.

“I don’t know,” she confesses. “It’d be simpler if I – _got rid_ – wouldn’t it?”

“To a degree, yes.” No point in veiled words now. Honesty should be repaid in kind.

“I can feel it Mycroft,” she says quietly, after a moment. “It’s just a fetus, barely the size of a peanut—” (she’s been researching, he concludes) “but I can feel him. Her. It. I don’t know.”

“How far along are you?”

“Couple of weeks. I think. Haven’t been to the doctor’s yet,” she says with a sharp laugh. False and an attempt to comfort herself.

“Sherlock’s definitely the dad,” she adds, speaking to his silence. “I haven’t been with anyone – except him, obviously.”

“The fact you’re ringing me makes that fact obvious.”

“Yes I’m sorry – I just – I don’t know where else to turn.”

She needs someone away from this. Someone distant, on the cusp of it who only occasionally peeks in. He’s always been good at distance.

“Don’t make your decision yet,” he tells her. He takes another sip of scotch, teeth clinking against glass and giving him away.

“What are you drinking?” she asks. Mycroft nearly laughs.

“Scotch. Vintage.”

“Could do with some of that now, to be honest.”

He reaches forward and sets the glass of scotch on a coaster. A man in a kilt is painted on the surface of it. His old assistant’s idea of a joke.

“A pity really,” he says, staring at the amber liquid.

“Yeah. Wouldn’t want to harm – well.” She swallows what else she has to say and if he hasn’t done his duty, this is the part where she puts on a false warm, a false sense of feeling comforted.

“Bye, Mycroft,” she says quietly and the phone beeps to tell him she’s gone.

Later on that day, he’s caught in a meeting and comes out to 10 missed calls. All from Sherlock. His mouth twitches with a smirk as he sends off a text.

_Congratulations. – MH_

His brother’s reply comes straight away.

_Bad root canal? – SH_

He lies. Tells him he’s had a tooth removed.

* * *

He’s forced to wait in a room that smells of disinfectant and children. The chairs are blue and uncomfortable, the curtains are the cheapest they can get, and a nurse pops in every so often to tell him everything’s going fine. He endures thin coffee that scalds his tongue and picks his way through a stale croissant he managed to pick off the shelves in the visitor’s cafe. A loud group of relatives, carrying presents and balloons and other children, fill the visitor’s room and chatter excitedly about their new relative.

He’s never more relieved to see that damned nurse, quietly entering the room and walking over to him.

“They’re ready to see you,” she says with a smile and clasped hands. He gets to his feet, buttons his suit jacket and walks to the designated room.

She’s lying in the hospital bed when he arrives, skin pink and tendrils of hair damp. His brother holds the baby against his chest. It’s wrapped in a blue towel and squeaks and squalls as it’s held.

Molly Hooper sees him enter and tilts her head forward.

“Mycroft,” she says in greeting. By contrast, his brother glances up and deftly decides to ignore him. He turns away and hands the baby back to her.

“Good evening,” Mycroft says. He nods to the baby. “A boy. My congratulations.”

Molly holds the baby well, cocooning him in her arms. She smiles as the child yawns, and touches at his nose with her little finger. The child snuffles in response.

“Noah,” she murmurs, focused utterly on her son. “That’s a good name for you, little man.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. She already has a nickname for him.


	208. Your Royal Highness. (Anastasia AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thenworld asked: "royal/commoner au. optional: they date and ppl love them to pieces (bc we do)".
> 
> I decided... not to go for the option.

She remembered the palace from when she was small. She remembered how overwhelming it had been. To watch the rain pour past tall glass windows which were polished to shine. To slip in between secret doors and hurry down stone spiral staircases. 

There was no need for her to be so invisible now.

With a sigh, she began a quick descent down the wide staircase. She slowed when she rounded the corner of the steps and witnessed two figures stood at the bottom of the staircase. They did not see her stop.

Her path was blocked by the two men. An elderly man, with a slightly bent back and a well-trimmed beard, and he fussed over the man with the air of an official aid.

“Leave it alone,” the other said with a short sigh, dismissing the elder with a wave of his hand. He turned his head, glancing up. His mouth rose with the hint of a smile. She realised with a start that he’d seen her coming. “Let the lady through.”

She swallowed. He wore military regalia now, with his family’s colours. Black, lined with a dark navy hue. A red sash crossed his chest. It was a world away from muddied shirts and trousers and hard-toed boots, built for labour—

_“So, you really think I’m royalty?” he’d asked, stretched out onto one bench, leaving little room for anyone else, and rocking as the train rocked._

_“Of course I do.”_

_A glint in his eye then. “Then it’s a little inappropriate to be telling me what to do, isn’t it?”  
_

She advanced down the steps, a murmur of ‘thank you’ passing her lips.

“You got your reward then?”

She stopped as she stepped off the staircase and onto the Grand Hall’s main floor. It was soft patterned carpet underneath her feet, swept and cleaned in time for his great return. My boots will leave marks, she thought grimly. She turned, adjusting the lapels of her coat, folding them upwards with her thumb and she gave him a smile.

“As much reward as I wanted. Just as promised.” ( _“You traverse countries with my brother, and yet you wish for no reward,”_ the King had smiled, almost a smirk, _“You are a strange creature, Miss Hooper.”_ )

“Young lady! You must curtsey and refer to the Prince by the proper title—”

“Don’t you have someone else to fuss over?” he barked quickly, and the elderly man blinked. He waved again at the aid, his gesture urgent. “Go on, leave.”

“But, Your Royal Highness—”

“No, it’s fine.” She dropped into a brief curtsey and bowed her head. “Your Royal Highness. Farewell.”

He nodded once, a short sharp movement. “Farewell. Enjoy your—” He paused. “Reward.”

The roof of her mouth felt dry. “I will.”

She turned away and continued her path down the Hall and out of the palace.


	209. Repurcussions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "Prompt: Sherlock and Molly have been in an on and off relationship for years and Sherlock decides they need to get their shit together and actually be together properly bc he just loves molly so much-"
> 
> Quick warning for mentions of depression and breakdowns.

There’s a faint crack on the right-sided wall. She sits opposite, feet tucked under her legs and a rug over her shoulders and pyjamas loose on her body. The crack tracks from the corner, where it joins with the north-facing wall. It tracks down and up and spreads into tendrils of fainter cracks, soon disappearing into old plasterboard and chipped mint green paint. The fireplace is wood, chipped too. White paint and an antique mirror hanging above it. If he were to look closely, he expects there’d be dust and scratches. The chimney it encases is coated with coal black which chokes fading orange. Embers.

A bookshelf stands beside him, where he hides in the left-hand corner of the room like a smacked dog. Shrinking into the hard luxury of an antique, high-back chair. The pattern is their family’s tartan, a pattern brought some hundred years ago by some Lord in their lineage. Someone with trumped up ideas of what it is to be a gentleman, someone yearning to improve themselves.

His clean coat and crisp suit are back in Baker Street, abandoned as soon as he’d heard. He’d just come in what he had. Shirt and trousers. That was two days ago. Now he’s forced to wear scraps, an itchy jumper and old jeans, things he last climbed into when he was dead. He’d left them here on his last night before heading back to London. Slipping back into his suits had been the easiest thing in the world. Now he’s back in jumper and jeans, picking at dirty orange threads until she looks at him.

He could be here for days.

He doesn’t mind. He doesn’t matter.

She is the important one here. She is the one who Mycroft found when he couldn’t, when he was too lost in his own head to even move some days. He, they, all assumed that, once the news had come through, he’d go charging off. That he’d chase any and every lead, track down any villain or “ne’er-do-well” that could lead him to her.

But reality bites and nips and tears, and even the greatest of minds can collapse. Even the greatest of minds can abandon the people they love.

He hates himself for it and he can’t stop thinking.

In his head, it’s a timeline. He separates it by decades. 

 _1990s, early._ _First meeting._ First class of first day of university. One of the rare times he showed up. She holds open a door for him, and he ignores her. But she answers questions in the class with sharpness, before he can, and suddenly he’s interested. _Fast forward to mid._  Firm friends now, university graduates. She’s got a direction in life, he’s got his family’s money and little else. They joke, they tease, and after one particularly drunken evening, they have sex. Fumbling, quick, numbing. What they both want. _New Year’s Eve, 1999._ Perhaps the worst of her life, when she walks in on him and discovers his sordid little secret. 3 years, gone up in smoke because he couldn’t resist one little hit.

 _2000s, late. Second meeting._ She’s cautious, he’s eager to prove himself. To prove that he can hold down a job, run a proper lifestyle. He tries the traditional office job, but that ends in about a week when he insults the CEO of the company (their own fault for having two mistresses). She puts him up when he inevitably loses his flat at the end of the month. Helps him realise the way in which he can put his brain to use. After six months of living there, he wakes up to find her wearing one of his shirts and making breakfast. She asks him if he wants coffee, with a bright grin, and that afternoon, he announces he’s found a flat. He moves out immediately, and tells himself he’s not running away again.

The timeline fades, he blinks, and sighs, leaning forward. She’s still on the sofa, by the fireplace, watching the fire fade. Her head tilted back, her body curled close to the chair and the rug clutched between her fingers.

He gets to his feet, and her head turns. They catch him, her brown eyes swivelling towards him. She frowns, eyebrows knitting together.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. He sounds dumb, like a child caught doing something bad; sounds unfit for what he’s supposed to do. Which is true. He is unfit, and the reason’s much the same as it always was. He isn’t brave enough. Give him a puzzle, he’ll run around the world to solve it. (If it’s good enough.) Give him a woman who takes all the knocks in the world for the people she loves, and he’s a coward.

She sits up and the rug slips from her fingers, falling down her shoulders to pool around her waist. Her arms are bare, the grey short-sleeved shirt thin and too big. More scraps.

He walks forward, without much thought (he never gives much thought around her, observes everything but never thinks, and that accounts for so much), and stops in front of the sofa. He sits down and he wants this to be some kind of debonair moment where he wordlessly prove to her how much he does care, how sorry he is, but it ends up being a clumsy exchange with too many words.

“What are you doing? Are you—?”

“Body warmth,” he blurts and she blinks in surprise. He swallows. “You’re – you’re cold.”

“Oh. Um. Yes.” She tucks strands of her brown hair behind her ears and her eyes drop, absorbing the pattern of the blanket. More tartan. Possibly about as itchy as his jumper. She looks back up at him. “Al-alright.”

She leans forward and he wraps his arms around her. He makes sure to rub her arms with his palms, and she tucks her feet underneath the blanket. Without the fire, the room is colourless and he finds he cannot pay attention to it. He can only pay attention to her head settling on his chest and her arms wrapping around his waist, seeking more and more of his warmth. He’s prepared to give it all to her; it’d still be a pitiable exchange for all she’s given him.

“Did you expect me?” He gives her the question in the form of a murmur, private to the two of them. She stills, but nods. His fingers tremble against her skin, and he all of a sudden knows how fragile the breathing process is.

“They all did,” he confesses. “John, Mary, Greg, Donovan… They thought if I could save anyone, I could save you.”

She stays silent. He isn’t surprised. His excuse is far from good enough. Because in the end, that’s what they are.

“I’m a horrible person, Molly,” he whispers. His fingers trace through her hair. “I abandoned you.”

“You had a breakdown.” She speaks softly, not looking at him, and carries on speaking even when he protests. “You lost your mind, Sherlock.”

He looks down at her. He doesn’t even have to look at her to know what she’s thinking. Just like always. She’s able to tell him so many things without any words; and this time, he has to stop her. “Molly… please – don’t.”

She tilts her head, brown eyes staring up at her. Her mouth twitches with the ghost of a smile. She shrugs.

“Too late. Already have.”

In one fell swoop, she erases the one reason he had from making the biggest confession of his life. Forgiveness is a powerful weapon.

He hesitates, but her smile is still there and she’s still looking at him. So he reaches up to her cheek and settles his palm against her jaw. He brushes his thumb against the hollow of her cheek and bends his head to kiss her forehead.

“I love you. And I will regret abandoning you for every day of my life, Molly Hooper. But I promise you, I won’t run away.” He doesn’t look away from her, not for a second. He’s a coward, yes, but this is the first step he can take to make it better. “And if anyone tries to hurt you again – I will be there for you. To rescue you, to help you. To do anything you need me to.”

“That’s a heavy promise to make, Sherlock,” she says. He smiles.

“Yes. And true.”

She stares at him, her brow lowering, her lips thinning— and then her look mellows, and she presses her head to his chest and breathes.

“Then I make that promise too.”


	210. The Proper Baking Skills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "Sherlock thinks Molly is a great baker and so he enters her as contestant for the Great British Bake Off. Plus points if Molly uses Mycroft and Sherlock as her guinea pigs for her baked goods. Sherlolly please."
> 
> Somehow this became Swaplock. The cute kind, where Molly’s the detective and Sherlock’s the pathologist.

“I bake to think, and now I’m stuck baking all day,” she grumbled, throwing open the oven door and retrieving her fourth cake of the day. Sat in his chair, Sherlock glanced over the top of his newspaper. Behind his thin-rimmed glasses (architect’s glasses, she’d called them), his eyes twinkled.

“Better than the last one.”

“The last one became a mass of crumbs,” Molly replied, examining the cake tin in her hands.

“That one’s got _some_ rigidity at least,” he said, amused and looked back to his newspaper. He felt the heat of Molly’s glare.

“It’s burnt.” There was a clatter as she dumped the cake tin onto the worktop. Sherlock glanced up. Moodily snapping off the oven gloves, with her face turned down into a frown, she set about her fifth attempt.

“This is your fault,” she grumbled, brown eyes finding his as she beat two eggs. “I don’t even _like_ Bake Off.”

Sherlock rustled his newspaper, turning a page. “You liked that boy with the syringe. Tamal?”

“He thought outside the box – I’m not saying that made him better than any other contestant, but it was interesting at least to watch.“ Putting the eggs to one side on the kitchen table, Molly walked towards the fridge and opened the door, peering inside. She sighed. “Oh for heaven’s sake, Sherlock, where’s the milk?”

“Isn’t it beside the head I got you?”

Molly searched inside the fridge. “No.”

“Hm. I think you used it all on those cupcakes you made.”

“Which Mycroft still hasn’t thanked me for giving him,” Molly muttered and she pushed the fridge door closed with her hip.

“He’s probably busy eating his way through them.”

“Shouldn’t take him long,” Molly said and she worked with the mixer, plugging it in and switching it on, before putting in the ingredients. For a few moments, she stared into the mixing bowl as it worked. Her lips thinned.

“Mixture’s not sticking, it’s too thick. Bugger it, I’ll have to go get milk.” Darting into the living room, she grabbed her purse from the desk. As she passed, Sherlock tilted his head up. Tucking her hair back, she ducked down and kissed him on the cheek goodbye. Shoving her feet into her pumps, she scooped her coat from its place on the back of her chair and ran towards the flat door.

Sherlock looked to the kitchen. With flour, sugar, broken eggshells covering both the kitchen table and worktops, and bowls and pans piled high in and beside the sink, Sherlock swallowed a laugh.

“Maybe you should try a Baked Alaska?” he called, and waited.

A distant voice soon shouted up the staircase. “ _Ian didn’t deserve to go!_ ”


	211. Christmas Traditions. (His Last Vow AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> consulting-pathologist asked: "prompt: Sherlock goes to his parents for Christmas and finds out they have also invited Molly."

He hovered in the doorway, glass in hand and hand in pocket. His forefinger tapped, again and again, at the side of the glass. Crystal cut, short stemmed, it was more suited to brandy. The dark red liquid, peppered with orange peel, didn’t suit. But it was the first glass he could get, and that’s the way Christmas goes. Mycroft’s moaning droned on from the kitchen, lined by pretty choral carols. Sherlock glanced at his watch.

“Bored already?”

He resisted a smile, as he turned his head. She was stood in the hallway, brown hair down and curled. No silver bow though. Her dress was green, festive green. Purposefully loose.

She looked just about as uncomfortable as him.

“It’s Christmas,” he grimaced, and she smiled. He glanced down towards the glass of punch in his hand. He swallowed and pushed it forward, towards her. “There. Another tradition.”

She blinked, her smile fading. Her brow sunk into a frown.

“Um – right. Thanks.” Her fingers clasped around the glass as he let go, dropping his hand back down to his side. He watched as Molly, lowering her head, sipped at the punch. Her nose wrinkled.

“Gah. Just as horrible as I remember.” She shook her head and peeked into the living room. She sighed, and stepped back, looking to him. 

“C’mon,” she said and she moved back from the living room. “You’ve already got your coat on. Let’s go somewhere.”

He followed without protest.

* * *

They ended up outside, standing side by side at the foot of the house’s path. She crossed her arms against the cold, skirts flapping as she leaned against the low stone wall with her ankles crossed and the punch glass in her hand. He took out a packet of cigarettes.

“Low-tar?” she asked. He chuckled as he took one out, lighting it.

“You should know me better.”

“Yeah. Silly question.” She turned her head to the right, staring down the row of cottages. Small, antique things, designed for escape from the rat race. She smiled and looked back, nodding at the packet. “Give me one.”

He swallowed a remark and walked towards her, stopping until his feet were either side of her ankles, pressed tightly together. He handed out the packet to her. Her pale fingers shakily withdrew a cigarette and she tucked it between her lips.

“Need a light?” he asked. She glared at him in reply and reached around the back of her head, scooping her hair around to her right shoulder. He raised an eyebrow and tucked the cigarette packet into his coat pocket. Letting the coat slide off his shoulders with a shrug, he leaned forward and draped it over her shoulders. 

She stared at him for a long moment. He smiled and settled against the wall beside her, folding his arms over his chest.

“Check the left pocket.”

She did so, and soon found the lighter. Taking it out, she lit her cigarette and pressed it into his waiting palm. Out of the corner of his eye, as he began to smoke, he saw her left hand twitch over the material of his coat and tug it closer.

“I remember the first time I came here.” She tapped cigarette ash onto the ground and sighed. “How old were you then?”

“9. You’d just turned 8.”

She ignored the slip of information. “Your mum was really welcoming, I remember that. To me, my mum—”

“You didn’t return the favour though,” he said playfully, glancing towards her, “if I remember rightly.”

“My mum did! But yeah. I was _such_ a little shit. I’m amazed your mum ever invited me back.”

“She understood. And she’s always loved a cause.” 

Molly’s eyebrows rose. “So I’m a cause?” She shook her head, and a cold smile flicked onto her lips. She took a sip of the punch. “Great.”

Sherlock frowned.

“No – no, that’s not…” Her grin warmed and he let his protest die away. He aimed a knowing look at her. “You’re teasing me.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “And you’re distracted. You keep checking your watch – when you think I’m not looking.” Her brown eyes sobered. “What’s wrong, Sherlock?”

“Nothing. Drink your punch.”

She lowered her head and studied the dark red liquid. The orange peel was sunken towards the bottom of the glass, too long left there and far beyond rescue. She breathed and raised the glass to her lips.

“I’m sorry. About the newspapers.” It was a stilted apology, but the best chance he’d probably get. “You should’ve heard it from me.”

She took another drag of her cigarette. “It’s alright. Even if it was true – I don’t have a claim over you. Never did.”

Her brown eyes held his for a long moment and he regretted giving her his coat. She was no doubt wearing some kind of perfume for today. (She made an effort, unlike him.) She’d cling to him now, and he’d find it ever harder. He broke. Lowered his head and let his eyelids fall shut. They just had to invite her. Tradition be damned.

“No,” he admitted. “You don’t.”

Even though she’d saved his life. Even though she’d walked away when he’d begged her to stay, refusing to enable him. His cheek tingled with the memory of a slap, not given in the white walls of a lab, but one given when he’d gone too far and said too much. Inside his head, John scoffed. _No claim my arse_.

“Thanks for the coat,” she said, standing. She dropped her cigarette onto the ground and folded the coat into two, draping it over the wall. 

“Molly,” he murmured, reaching out as she began to move back. She stopped and he blinked. He shifted his fingers back from her wrist to loosen his grip, but she stayed. She stepped forward, her heels clicking against stone, and leaned forward. His throat felt dry. They were so familiar to each other and yet, in these moments, her name felt so strange.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“Go upstairs, to my bedroom.” His mouth moved with a wry smile. “The punch – you’ll find it gives you a headache.”

“Why?”

He was often thought to be the most unsentimental man in England, and yet she chipped through it (all of it) without thinking. Over and over. Another weakness. He had racked up a whole list of them in recent months, quite thoughtlessly. He raised the courage to lift his head and see her. His wry smile grew. Of all his weaknesses—

“You know me, Molly Hooper.” She knew him the most.

She proved that by dropping her hand from his fingers. She straightened up and headed back inside the cottage. An exiting Mycroft held the door open for her. Stubbing out her cigarette and his own, Sherlock got to his feet and threw back on his coat. Taking a second cigarette from the packet, Sherlock idly paced in front of the cottage’s iron gate. His brother, like him, wordlessly lit his cigarette and began to smoke.

Unlike him, Mycroft chose to break it.

As ever, his tone was languid. “I’m glad you’ve given up on the Magnussen business.”

No mention of Molly Hooper. Sherlock continued to smoke. Mycroft may have been irritating but he was, on occasion, wise. 


	212. Quality Time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thenworld asked: "sherlock, molly, mary, and john double date."
> 
> Tiny Christmassy drabble, filled to the brim with fluff.

Sherlock stands by the window, glass of scotch held between his fingers. His violin is in his other hand, the bow put to one side. He’ll play soon, as they’re no doubt going to ask him to. It’s useful, John has joked in the past, having a musician as a best friend. 

Mary is wearing antlers that flash green and red. John grins as she playfully rattles one of her gifts. John’s all too bright jumper is proof that married couples often do start to share similar tastes. (However bad those tastes may be.) Scarlett—not so small now—buries her head in hands and threatens to go and bury herself somewhere if her mother doesn’t stop.

Molly sits on the floor. There’s no flashing antlers in her hair, no embarrassing jumpers. Just a silver ribbon in her loose straight hair and a pattern of reindeer and presents on her red knitted socks. She laughs, telling Scarlett that parents are meant to embarrass their children.

A question comes to him. He puts his violin to one side and sits on his chair. Molly, in front of him, shifts back until she sits between his legs, her back to him. He leans forward a little, stroking his fingers through her hair. She hums from the back of her throat.

“I suppose this could be called a double date?” he asks, a quiet murmur. Molly laughs, a soft burst of a sound, and turns her head to look up at him. She looks at him for a moment as he looks down at her. As his features dip into a frown, her lips stretch into a smile. She shifts, turning until she’s knelt, fully facing him with her hands on his knees. He leans back with her movement to allow her room. She darts forward and kisses him on the cheek. There’s an answer buried somewhere within but, as she turns and sits back down on the floor, Sherlock shakes his head. It doesn’t matter what it is. It just matters that it is.


	213. Sherlock Holmes of Frell. (Ella Enchanted AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "Have you ever done an Ella Enchanted Sherlolly?" I haven't, so I did one. It ended up being this quasi-medieval screwball comedy kind of thing, based on the first meeting between Ella and Char in the film.

Walking down the winding path of the hill, Sherlock Holmes paused. Hurrying footsteps gave him cause to look round. A female, fitted in a pink-coloured gown with their skirts clasped in one hand, was running along down the path. Their hair was brown, long, loose. Sherlock noted, with a blink and some alarm, that she was coming straight for him. The figure, panting, grabbed at his arm.

“Wait!” Sherlock shouted. “What – what are you doing – get off me, this is not—!”

His attacker dragged him into the undergrowth down towards a rock, blocking the sight of both of them from the main path. One hand held his shoulder, keeping him in place as her other hand clamped over Sherlock’s mouth, muffling his protests.

“Shut _up_ ,” she hissed. Sherlock fell silent. The female’s breaths were shallow, warm against his neck as she looked at the path. Sherlock turned his head, eyeing his captor. The urge to fight against her, her grip, bubbled up in his throat but the words were swallowed down by her command. Sherlock shifted against the female, trying to stand up. The female pulled him back.

“Wait,” she ordered, the word a soft whisper in his ear. Sherlock rolled his eyes, irritated as his body immediately went still. He blinked as he heard more footsteps thunder their way down the main path. A stampede of guards, adorned in black armour, sprinted down the path. The royal crest adorned their chests. Sherlock’s eyes widened.

If he could’ve spoken, could’ve moved, the temptation to call the guard back and run away to let his assailant deal with her problem on her own would’ve most certainly turned into action. The stampede thundered over the bridge into the distance.

Slowly, with the guards disappearing from view, the female removed her hand from Sherlock’s mouth.

“They’re gone. Good.”

His assailant looked down at him. As she stared, her eyes scanning him, her brows furrowed. Her thin lips parted.

“You can move, you know.”

Sherlock immediately scrambled away from her and stood up, scanning the forest. The guards had, unfortunately, moved on. Most likely they were out of earshot. Appeared then that his assailant had known exactly what she was doing. Huffing, Sherlock headed out of the undergrowth towards the path. The female remained where she was. A smile crept onto her mouth.

“You do know who I am, don’t you?” At her call, Sherlock glanced back at her over his shoulder. With a smile, he shook her head. Still sat at the rock, the female frowned and got up to her feet. She brushed a little at her skirts before she began to move forward. Sherlock stopped, watching as she made her way over to him. She stopped in front of him, staring up. Now they were stood opposite one another, the difference in their heights was all the more apparent. With some amusement, Sherlock noted a spark of curiosity in her eyes, and a ghost of a smile on her lips.

“ _Everyone_ knows who I am,” she murmured. She straightened up, clearing her throat. The minor curiosity was gone, replaced by a superiority which was a trademark of her family; no doubt inherited, or something learned. She did not, Sherlock decided, have it in her to instinctively lord it over someone. She was far too kind. “Tell me you know who I am.”

“I do,” Sherlock said with a light sigh, the sound of his voice music compared to her learned snobbery. “I simply don’t have much time for royalty, _Princess_ Molly of Lamia.”

The princess grinned, a flash of triumph. “So you _do_ know who I am!”

Sherlock shrugged. “The fan club following you made it more than a little obvious.”

The raise of her eyebrows told him she remained unconvinced. “Did it really?”

“Yes. There aren’t many pictures of you in Frell, Princess. Just words. Rumours mostly.”

She blinked, taken aback. “Rumours? What kind of rumours?”

Sherlock shrugged as he continued his walk towards the cottage. The princess fell into step alongside him. “They change from week to week. They mostly seem to be about who you’re engaged to. Last one said you were engaged to some English lord. Thomas was his name. I think.”

She snorted. “I’ve never been engaged to anyone, and I am very unlikely to be.”

Sherlock tilted his head towards her. “You’re a princess, _Your Highness_ – surely you must have a husband?”

She gathered up her skirts as she traversed a small muddy patch of the path. “That’s a tradition for other people. Not me.”

Sherlock stepped onto the bridge. “So you plan to run your kingdom alone. Bold.”

“Lamia is far from being my kingdom,” she replied, strolling past Sherlock. Coming to the middle of the bridge, she dropped her hand from her skirts to tuck her hands behind her back. Her skirts shifted with her as she turned on her heel. She gave a dry smile. “I have to be crowned first.”

Sherlock perched against the stone wall of the bridge. He tilted his head as she stared at him. For a princess, she was mightily odd. Odder than the descriptions of her made out. Whether that was a good thing or not was to be decided. “And do you have a plan? For when you become Queen – our great ruler?”

She frowned, folding her hands in front of her.

“You know… you’re the first man I’ve met who hasn’t proposed to me as soon as he’s seen me.”

Sherlock chuckled. “How does it feel?”

She stepped forward. “What’s your name?”

“Sherlock,” he answered. “Sherlock Holmes, of Frell.”

“Well then—”

“Princess!”

Whatever she had to say was gone. Her fan club was back, on the other side of the river, close to the bridge. One of the guards stepped forward, his sword drawn. “Princess, you must return with us.”

Suddenly, she darted forward and kissed Sherlock quickly on the cheek. Sherlock blinked. He stood watching as Molly, holding her skirts, climbed onto the wall of the bridge. Sherlock burst out a laugh.

“You’re escaping.”

Molly took a breath, spreading her arms wide. Her eyes remained on the running waters. “You could call it that.”

She jumped.


	214. Testing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a prompt fill - contains spoilers for "The Abominable Bride". Mostly born out of me trying to sort my feelings out after watching the episode.

He was so confident when he’d got off the plane. He knew what Moriarty would do next, he knew his next steps, there was a plan in his head and yet— it disappears here. Everything. The ideas, the plans, it all melts away.

The colour of her door changes from time to time. The first time he faced it, it was red. The shade of cherry, like that damned cardigan of hers. Two years later, he faced it again and found it black. She told him, with a faint laugh and a smile, that she’d fancied a change.

“Hm,” had been his reply. An impolite grunt to show he was half-listening when, in reality, most of his attention was focused on her hand, his eyes taking glimpses as she flexed her fingers against the rounded china of her tea mug, gripping it tight to drink. Every time, his gaze had met the spark and the silver of an engagement ring.

Her door is still black. It remains black as he stays there. Every minute drags out to an hour.

A click makes him blink. The door opens. He looks up, craning his neck and tilting his head like a wounded puppy. Sitting on the floor by her door, unable to even build up the courage to get to his feet and knock, he’s not even that. He’s a coward, with his legs drawn up to his chest and his hands on his knees.

Patterns of doodles, of cartoon white kittens, cover the blue material of her pyjamas. The hem cuts off at her thigh. The t-shirt, white, carries some message about sleeping in, and her hair is tangled. Her eyes are red.

Wordlessly, he reaches into his coat pocket. She’s known about the list since their days of university. When she followed him to some doss house and stood over him, her phone clamped to her ear as she begged Mycroft to come quick. She’d taken the list from his fist, and he’d begged her to give it back. Snapped at her ( _stupid little girl_ , he’d called her, a misjudgement made in the middle of a comedown) when she’d initially refused. On Mycroft’s arrival, he’d sat at his brother’s side and held his feet, bestowing a quiet dismissal to Molly.

She’d knelt at Sherlock’s head in reply, holding Mycroft’s gaze until his brother had been forced to acquiesce with a nod. (Both Mycroft and Molly refuse to hear a bad word about each other, especially when the word is from him.)

Now, in cat pyjamas, she scans the list. There’s no shock, no bulging of eyes. She folds the list closed and offers it back to him. She folds her arms over her chest, leaning close against her doorway.

“You tried to kill yourself.”

There’s a lack of the other word people have used. They say ‘could’ve’. Hedge around the true meaning—mostly because it’s too painful to confront. He’s very good at creating tension.

And she bulldozes through it without a care in the world. He opens the list. The words used to mean something but like Moriarty, like his plans, his ideas, he’s in front of her and the meaning’s lost. All he knows is that he is front of Molly Hooper and she wears animal-based clothing when she sleeps, her hair is tangled, she’s recently shaved her legs, and he is the reason her eyes are red.

“I was dead from the moment I shot Magnussen.” Sometimes, he wishes he could soften the blow.

She drops her head in a nod. Crosses one leg over the other, her foot arched and her toes flexing slightly into the floor. Strands of her hair fall over her face.

“How did you get hold of them?”

“Mycroft gave me half an hour at Baker Street to ‘collect my thoughts’,” he confesses, scanning the words on the unfolded piece of paper over and over. “There’s one or two stashes he still doesn’t know about.”

“John’s not speaking to you.”

“He offered me a bed for the night.” He swallows. “I refused it.”

The implication causes her to sigh. He looks up at her, finds her closing her eyes as she gently presses her head against the door jamb. She could step back, invite him to stand; let him cross inside, to her flat filled with trinkets and a bed with a quilt handed down to her by her family. A bed that’s unashamedly her, metal painted white with roses and vines carved in between arched bars. A surprisingly comfortable— He squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head. He can’t slip back, not to there.

Her hand enters the periphery of his vision, nails coloured pink (a bit of self-indulgence, needed after the news she’s been given, the news he’s failed her again). He turns his head and finds her bent forward a little, looming over him for once.

“Give me your phone.”

He obeys, handing over the object and it’s a temporary freedom. She turns back into the flat, closing the door behind her. He’s left to stare at the black paint for only a few moments.

“Your phone is now in the drawer of my bedside table.” She breathes. “You can stay. On the condition you don’t go near your phone.”

There are so many other variables to this situation, this experiment. He could wake in the early hours of the morning, desperate for a fix, and sneak out. He could be back before she even realised he was gone.

He gets to his feet with a groan. She opens the door a little wider.

* * *

He does wake in the early hours of the morning. His skin itches as he pads through the flat, always taking glimpses, snatching looks towards the door. She’s left the key out in full sight. Another challenge, another condition to the experiment. She knows him. She knows he needs this; tests, puzzles. Only this time, she’s urging him to solve himself.

There’s a reason he fills his life with distractions. For him, for anyone, solving oneself is more than a difficulty. It’s more than a challenge, more than a test.

A door opens in front of him, the door to her bedroom. She is sleepy, bleary-eyed. He’s not as careful as he used to be.

“Sherlock?” she mumbles. “You’re still—”

He doesn’t know why but seeing her, standing in her bedroom doorway with her face half-lit by the yellow of her bedside lamp, her clothes rumpled with kinks in the material. The left side of her shorts is folded up at the hem, revealing more of her thigh. He walks forward and wraps his arms around her waist. He lifts her into the air, her legs coming to wrap around his hips. He buries his face into the sweet space between her shoulder and her neck, mouth and breath running gently along the dip of her collarbone. Her fingers sink into his hair as he sits on her bed, settling into the softness of her quilt.

In the low-lit dark, there is no kissing. There are no caresses. With his fingers, he rolls small circles against her sides, shifting her top along her warm skin. She lets one hand fall to the base of his neck, the tip of her forefinger drawing lines and patterns into him. He memorises each one.

“I dreamt of you,” he admits with a sigh. She traces the most basic of equations (E=mc2) into his skin.

“Did you?”

“Dreamt you were a part of a secret Victorian cult of feminists.”

“I dread to think what that means.” 

“It means I hurt you.” He holds her tight. She hasn’t stopped touching him, hasn’t stopped letting him hold her but he’s being honest, he’s allowing sentiment to seep into him and control— He swallows. “Again and again.” 

Letting her hand from his hair, she slides her arm along the width of his shoulders, enveloping him and holding him as he’s holding her.

“While I am a feminist, and I am angry with you – you haven’t hurt me Sherlock.”

He stops. He has to have hurt her. He’s let her down, he’s let everyone down, he’s _relapsed_. He draws his head back, frowning at her. She returns his frown with a smile. She lets out a soft laugh. It’s odd, ill-fitting to the situation, to how he feels (how she feels). It soon fades but the smile remains.

“I’m not as fragile as you seem to think I am, Sherlock.”

He gently squeezes her waist. It’s so intimate, every touch they make. He wonders if they will ever manage to have a calm, casual encounter. If they’ll ever be able to ask each other how they are without there being some agenda behind it. Him being him, probably not.

“I’ve never thought you fragile, Molly. Never.”

“Then why? Why do you always—” she sighs, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. Why does he always seek forgiveness— _her_ forgiveness?

“Because it makes me want to be better,” he mumbles, the answer muffled by her skin, her warmth. “I just – I don’t know how. And every time I get close, I – I ruin it. Blow it all up in your faces. Because I’m self-destructive, and that’s what self-destructive people _do._ ”

She draws back, stares at him. The space between her brows creases. Soft lines appear in her forehead, her eyebrows dipping down. Her hands fall away from his neck, his shoulders. She cups his face, the palms of her hands warm on his cheeks. Her thumb brushes over the hollow of his cheek.

A tiny shake of head, an even smaller breath, precedes her speech.

“Then ask.”

He swallows. Brushes his tongue over his bottom lip. Her hands slide from his face, down to settle against his chest. His mind sparks with the memory of another night, where their actions said everything and they fucked each other into mindless oblivion.

“H-how do I cope, Molly? Tell me how to cope.”

She holds him again, dropping a kiss, two kisses, on his temple and his forehead.

“First of all – you breathe.”

He does what she tells him. He breathes with her.

The key to her flat lies outside, a forgotten escape, and after a while, the challenge doesn’t seem so great.


	215. Brother's Duty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a prompt fill, just an idea of what Mycroft's line in TAB - "I'll be there for you again" - could possibly mean. (Because I just love to torture myself.)

The door to what used to be Baker Street creaks open. Beyond it lies what someone might call carnage. He flicks out with the tip of his umbrella, moving aside a copy of Carl Sagan’s _Billions and Billions_. The pages are crumpled, some edges ripped from the force of its fall. It was pristine last he saw it, a Christmas gift not yet given a second look. Other books have met the same fate.

Papers have met a similar fate—strewn and crumpled and ripped. He turns on his heel, moving down the corridor. He glances towards the kitchen. That is pristine. Left alone as a survivor.

He opens the bedroom door, brushing aside the question of why it’s closed. Contrary to previous times, other situations, the answer is blindingly obvious. Anyone, even a genius, would want to escape from reality. No better place to run to than dreams.

The bedroom is purgatory. The destruction has followed, more books and papers on the floor. His violin lies among it all, the wood chipped. Strings are missing. 

His phone lies, askew, at the other corner of the room, screen cracked. Beyond repair. An answer as to why he wasn’t answering (hasn’t answered phone calls for a good few days now.)

He’s curled up underneath the blankets, a lump that’s expectedly still. There’s always a calm before the storm, but the aftermath is much worse. The damage lingers; it clings to the stillness. Within the folds of grey, he sees him sleepless with familiar blue eyes that, despite finding him as he enters, are blank.

“Threw them out,” the lump says, his voice a low croak. Mycroft estimates he hasn’t spoken for three days at the very least.

Mycroft sinks onto the bed. He tucks his umbrella against his side, and turns his head. Atop the blankets, the endless space of grey lined by white, there’s a rectangle of red. Red that shines underneath a length of thin black rope, tied around the box. Perfectly wrapped, each edge perfect. Unopened. Mycroft flicks his gaze up.

“May I?”

No response. He ekes out his movements to the last second. His brother fails to take the chance, conceding to Mycroft’s curiosity. He rolls over, turning his back, as Mycroft touches at the red label with one gloved hand and flips it over.

The ink is faded, but the sentiment carries through.

_Dearest Sherlock  
Love Molly xxx_

Mycroft moves his hand just an inch. He draws it back, tucks his fingers and thumb against the edge of the present. 

Fingers grip tightly at his wrist. He looks up. His brother is sat bolt upright, his hand on Mycroft’s wrist, his knuckles white.

“Don’t—”

Mycroft lets go and the sentences fades into a sigh and closed eyes. Sherlock’s hand slips from his wrist. Mycroft settles his hand in his lap.

“My agents have been tracking Moriarty down. We believe he’s fled to Kabul. John and Mary are – eager to go.” A little more than eager. When he visited and gave them the information, Mary’s hands twitched and John kept looking to the floorboards in the left corner of the room. The soldier and the assassin—truly the perfect combination.

Silence from Sherlock. Mycroft breathes softly, slowly, out through his nose. He picks up his umbrella, sets it between his legs, holding it with both hands. He lowers his head, closes his eyes.

“I’ve always told you. Whatever – _trouble_ ,” (the word sticks in his throat because this isn’t trouble, drugs is trouble, his predilection for riling up whole criminal organisations on a daily basis is trouble but this isn’t, this is humanity) “you get yourself into… I will always be there for you.”

“I didn’t – I didn’t –  _take them_ ,” Sherlock hisses, his eyes still locked onto the gift.

“I’m not talking about the drugs.”

He manages to be flippant. (Distracting himself.) “You’re always talking about them.”

Mycroft rises to his feet. “And what kind of big brother would I be if I made discrepancies?”

“Rubbish,” Sherlock snaps.

“Exactly.” Mycroft buttons up his coat, and for a moment, his brother’s features mellow with a frown, a degree of realisation. Mycroft brushes dust away from the lapel of his coat.

“Text me when you’re ready. In the mean time, I’ll send John and Mary round.”

He responds better to them. Sherlock slides back down underneath the blankets, drawing them over his shoulders. The red gift remains on the blankets, a reminder of the woman who once lay there.

It’s a realisation that makes Mycroft sigh. He retrieves his phone as he steps through the damage. He’ll have to tell Mary and John. It’s likely they never knew.

Molly Hooper had always been very good at keeping his brother’s secrets.


	216. A Sudden Announcement. (Victorian!lock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a prompt fill. Inspired by this post I made on Tumblr: Victorian!Sherlock announcing he’s to marry in front of his circle of friends. When said friends are astounded and demand to know the identity of his bride, Sherlock blurts out “Hooper” without thinking— leading him to quickly adding “…‘s _sister_.”

“You’re to be – _married?_ ” John spluttered, jumping to his feet among the mess of Baker Street. His face bloomed red, soon transmogrifying into a delightful puce colour. “And you didn’t think to tell us?”

Sherlock blinked, made a mixture of curious and amused by the reaction of his best friend to the announcement. He glanced to John’s side, where Mary was still serenely sat upon the sofa. “Mrs Watson, tell your husband to sit down before he has a heart attack.”

“To be fair to my husband,” Mary replied coolly, “to suddenly announce to us you’re to be married is quite a shock.”

“Hardly the proper way of doing things though, Holmes,” piped up Lestrade, who stood by the window and nursed a glass of scotch. Sherlock swung his gaze towards the inspector. His eyes crinkled as his grin widened.

“I suppose not,” he replied, suddenly rising to his feet as he spoke, tucking his pipe between his lips. “But then there’s not much use in being an eccentric if one doesn’t – defy the rules, on occasion.”

John huffed, sighed, folded his arms across his chest, and then dropped his hands back to his sides. He stared at Sherlock for a moment.

“Well go on then, tell us who your bride is.” John smirked at his own words, glancing between his wife and Lestrade. “Though I’m sure I can guess who.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, sliding his hand into his pocket as he moved slowly towards the fireplace. He bought out his pocket watch and John witnessed a flash of gold as the detective flicked the case open, glancing over it.

“Oh yes – that’ll be interesting,” Mary said at her husband’s words, smiling suddenly. “Go on, Sherlock. Tell us who.”

He snapped the case shut and slid the watch back into his pocket. “That’s unnecessary.”

John raised a finger, triumphantly pointing towards his friend. He looked almost giddy. “I have it. I know _exactly_ who she is.”

Sherlock chuckled. “I doubt so, Watson.”

“It’s hardly fair to keep her identity secret, Sherlock,” Mary said, tilting her head. Her brows sunk a little. “How do you think she’ll feel when she finds out?”

“I’d imagine she’d feel fine,” Sherlock replied.

Lestrade sighed with impatience. “At least give us a name, for God’s sake!”

“Yes, give us a name,” John urged, his triumph unabated. “Though I’m sure I could tell them the name for you.”

“Alright. Hooper,” Sherlock declared. The whole room stopped, including Sherlock himself. He paused in his pacing, turning back to the silenced three. “—’s _sister._ ”

Molly would be angry to find out she would now have another layer to her lie, simply in order to maintain her career (the fact she had to come up with the charade in the first place was ludicrous, though Molly preferred to use rather more colourful language), but she would no doubt feel relieved at knowing he’d managed to—just about, he’d admit—salvage her secret.

“Hooper? Isn’t that the awful doctor John told me about?” Mary asked, though her innocent smile was more than a little knowing.

“Sister?” Lestrade frowned. “I didn’t know Doctor Hooper had a sister.”

“Yes, he does. Roughly of the same age – name’s Margaret. She prefers to be called Molly by friends and family. Interested in science, much more amiable than her brother—” he hid a smile as certain memories came back into being inside his mind—“and that’s all you need to know. Now, good afternoon. I’ve experiments to run.”

Lestrade obediently put down his scotch, bid a good afternoon to the three and left. John cleared his throat and stepped towards Sherlock. Folding his hands behind his back, he rolled onto the balls of his feet as he came to a stop.

“Hooper?” he asked, his voice audible only to the two men.

“Yes, Watson,” Sherlock murmured. “I am more observant than you give me credit for.”

John blinked, and quickly shook his head as if averse to plumbing the depths of Sherlock’s meaning, before he turned to his wife. She glanced up at his call.

“Yes, John?”

“It’s time we were going, dear,” John answered, heading towards the flat door and opening it for his wife. He tipped his hat towards Sherlock as Mary stood and walked towards the door. “Good afternoon, Holmes.”

“Good afternoon.” Sherlock shut the door behind them. Only a few moments passed before another door opened. Sherlock stepped away from the front door. The door to his bedroom was fully open.

“‘More amiable than her brother’?” She was wrapped in one of his robes, coloured a navy blue, with a nightgown underneath. Her hair was out of her disguise, long brown strands flowing over her shoulders and down her back. Her eyes were kind, a contrast to the ferocity she displayed as Michael Hooper, respected coroner, while her mouth was turned up in a smile.

“What would you prefer?” Sherlock asked, walking towards his future bride. “To describe you just like your brother?”

He slowly wrapped his arms around her waist and she stepped closer to him, her smile widening as he spoke. “To say you were just as belligerent?” He pressed a kiss to the base of her neck, above her collarbone. “Just as – unforthcoming?”

“Hm. I’m sure they would’ve thought me a perfect match for you,” she replied with a laugh, draping her arms around his neck. She drew him towards her for a languid kiss. “Though it might be difficult to explain why my brother and I are never seen together in public.”

“We can claim he disapproves of our relationship and refuses to have anything to do with us,” Sherlock mused. His eyes twinkled. “It would fit his reputation.”

“I feel inclined to remind you that Michael Hooper is very good at his job,” Molly replied.

“And I’m very grateful to him for that. For without him—” Sherlock said, raising his hands up to cup Molly’s face. He softly kissed her. “I’d never be able to do mine.”

“I’m glad you know that,” she murmured and dropped her hands to hug him at his waist. She buried her cheek against his torso, humming softly. Sherlock wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“One day you’ll be able to drop this stupid disguise of yours,” Sherlock said softly. “Work under your own name.”

“That’ll be a good day,” she mumbled. Sherlock closed his eyes. She sounded sad, frustrated, whenever they brought up the subject. He brushed his fingers through her hair, listening to her breathing. Against the warmth of her husband-to-be, Molly’s mouth lifted with a smile. It would be a very good day indeed.


	217. Revelation. (Victorian!lock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> introspectivenavelgazer asked: "Prompt: awkward, funny nudity. More comedy than smut. Please and thank you."
> 
> Set in the world of TAB.

It was not often that Sherlock made visits to Hooper’s apartments. Often it was a last resort—whenever John had been too busy to accompany on cases, and he had been in need of a smart pair of eyes, he had employed Hooper, for a small fee. On his entrance to the apartments, already familiar to him, he’d called for the coroner, expecting an argument—or perhaps two—in regards to his presence there. (Such a thing was usual for his visits.) Hooper had called impatiently for him to wait, and as Sherlock had glanced over the science books populating Hooper’s bookshelves, he’d heard the sloshing of bathwater. The door to the bathroom was flung open and Hooper, holding a robe around his body with his hair ruffled, had greeted him gruffly. After some explanation, Hooper had nodded, closing the bathroom door as he went. The robe around his body, caught so tightly in the bathroom door, had suddenly slid from Hooper’s shoulders towards the floor.

Though the coroner was turned away from Sherlock, the form presented to the detective could not hide the secret. Matthew Hooper was a her. 

Certainly not a situation covered by etiquette.

For that reason, Sherlock thought of only one thing to say:

“H-Hooper.” Colour pinked his cheeks. The coroner scrambled to pick up her robe, her back still turned to the detective, and wrapped it tightly around her body. Her fingers, pale and feminine—everything about her, from that one glimpse, now screamed femininity—tied the robe’s belt into a tight knot at the left side of her waist. She turned to face him, tucking her hands against her hips. The material creased to her her touch, its rich blue surface gentle and soft underneath her fingertips. The look in her eyes was the same look that had cultivated the respect he’d reluctantly bestowed upon Matthew Hooper when first witnessing his work.

_“Well-trained were you?”  
_

_“At the best medical school in London, sir,” Matthew had answered, his voice gruff with annoyance. His eyes, a fierce brown, flicked up to meet his as he removed a liver from the cadaver in front of him. “Will you insist on witnessing every examination I make?”  
_

_“Yes, probably, no-one does things properly in this place. Holmes, by the way.”_

_“And your first name?” Matthew asked, removing the second liver. Damage to both indicated disease; most likely the cause of death._

_“Holmes will do.”_

_Matthew looked up, palms flat against the edge of the mortuary slab, sucking in a breath. “Then you can simply call me Hooper, sir.”_

She glanced at him over her shoulder, her brown eyes flicking towards him. Her secret, her great secret was out, and something in her gaze had changed. The ferocity had transformed into, Sherlock realised with a jolt, fear. A fear edged with questioning—no. A plea. Numbly, he gave a nod of his head. 

She cleared her throat, her shoulders relaxed. “Holmes.”

She pulled the collar of her robe closer to her chest, turned her head away to dart back inside her bedroom. The door slammed behind her. Sherlock turned on his heels in the silence, tucking his pipe between his lips. He squeezed his eyes tight. Contrary to what he endeavoured, he found that the image did not leave him. 

Rather, it grew to such a size that he felt it loom over him, a taunting thing—refusing to be extinguished, like the strange discomfort he felt deep within him as the image continued to dance around in his mind. It seemed, somehow, to take up all of the space. He shook his head, storming from the apartment. 

The case could wait.


	218. Holiday Disaster. (Parentlock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "Here's a Sherlolly prompt: Sherlock and Molly taking their children on a skiing holiday. Mayhem ensues."
> 
> I don't feel like I'm _that_ good at parentlock these days, but I did try and came up with this short drabble.

“Isla! Careful down the slope! Nathaniel! Mind that—”

It had seemed like such a good idea, when London had been caught in a cloying heatwave, to be like ‘normal parents’ (Lestrade’s term) and go on a nice, middle-class skiing holiday for the winter.

Those same middle-class London families, sitting in ski lifts and calmly making their way down the shallower slopes, paused and watched with narrowed eyes at the sight of Sherlock Holmes, internationally famous—or notorious, depended on the people you spoke to and what newspaper they read—detective slipping and sliding down the sharp slope, legs and arms flying. 

Molly came up rapidly behind him, also flailing, and screaming his name as a warning in between the orders Sherlock yelled over his shoulder at their children. Isla, her feet strapped to a snowboard with her black hair flying, laughed as she weaved and wound her way down the slope, dangerously close to the trees. 

Nathaniel, armed with only a few skiing lessons, whizzed down the slope, past his still flailing parents. He came to a stop at the bottom of the slope with a skilful turn, and watched as gravity finally overcame and his parents fell forward and tumbled the short distance down to the slope’s end.

Isla arrived shortly after her parents. Snapping the snowboard off from her feet, she eyed her brother. Paramedics, already alerted to the catastrophe on the slopes, hurried towards the four.

“Right,” Sherlock said, pulling himself up and spitting out a mouthful of snow, “next year – nowhere with hills or slopes.”

“I vote the Bahamas,” Molly piped up, trapped as she was underneath her husband, her clothes and hair covered in snow. Sherlock easily rolled off of her, allowing her to sit up.

Nathaniel shrugged, giving a smirk. “I personally don’t see what all the fuss is about. It’s perfectly easy.”

Molly glowered as she ruffled her hair free of snow. “ _Funny._ ”


	219. Helping Hands. (27 Dresses AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "sherlolly 27 dresses su (molly is totally katherine heigls character and sherlock is totally James marsdens character)".
> 
> I didn't make this a complete AU, i.e. Sherlock isn't a commitments writer (as those don't really exist in the UK) and Molly isn't a personal assistant in love with her boss. I made it more into a canon divergence AU, in that the premise is that Molly is a perpetual bridesmaid, a secret she hides from her colleagues. Sherlock learns this, and insists on helping her on her latest wedding because he's bored without a case and needs to fill the time. Then... things... kind of... _happen_.

The hazards on her car are flashing, warning drivers and pedestrians that they’re broken down and stranded in the middle of who knows where. Her dress, a brightly patterned summer dress which vastly contrasts with the rain hammering on the car roof and windows, is gathered up around her hips. His fingers smooth over her hips, slipping underneath her dress to stroke at the soft of her belly before sliding down to her thighs, and she shivers.

“I really don’t do this,” she moans, the words a breath as he briefly rises up and kisses her at her neck, his teeth biting and scraping, leaving a mark. She sinks her hands into his hair, grinding against him. When they kiss, there’s a faint taste of vintage scotch, evidence of their time in the bar (“best way to waste time,” she’d said cheerfully on his questioning look). He gives her a heated look. 

“Neither do I.”

His look flicks into a grin at the sound of her sighing at his touch, agonisingly gentle as it is.

He isn’t so gentle when he switches his fingers for his tongue, and her gratitude comes in the form of a keening wail.

* * *

She wakes up at the side of the road. In the back of her car with tangles in her hair, rumpled clothes, and the smell of coffee. She blinks, tilting her head back. Through the open window of the back passenger door, he leans. With equally ruffled hair and rumpled clothes, and a cup of coffee in his hand that he offers out to her with a tilt of his eyebrow.

She groans and ducks down underneath the coat which is her makeshift blanket. Her brain, fuzzed at the edges, slowly realises the scent of it is _his_ —it’s his coat.

“Mechanic will be on his way soon,” he says from above. She winces, tries to speak. All that comes is a zombie-like groan. (She’s sure her hangovers have never been this bad—but then, she’s probably never drunk as much as she did last night.)

She slowly reaches out from under the coat and takes the coffee. Every movement she makes to sit has an awful effect on the ache in her head. In fact, she can only manage to lean up against the back door enough to drink without spilling. _He_ is quite amused by the sight, if his grin is anything to go by.

“When did you wake up?” she manages to ask.

“Didn’t really sleep.”

“So you’re still—” she ventures, squinting up at him.

He shrugs.

“It’ll wear off. But for now…” He presses two fingers to the base of the cup, gently urging it up back to her lips. “Drink up.”

She obeys, taking a gulp before she settles the coffee in her lap. A memory of last night dimly pinches at her, a blurred image briefly looming up, and she turns her head, looking to him for confirmation. “Did I – sing last night?”

“Mm. Very loudly.”

“It wasn’t Bennie and the Jets was it?”

“It was.”

Molly sinks back down against the car seat, covering her eyes with her arm. “Oh _God._ ”

“I did as well. So we’re mutual victims in the embarrassment.”

She chuckles, unable to stop herself. He has a way of phrasing things. “I’m surprised you know that song.”

“Hm. Well, you know,” he shrugs, “people are complex.”

Another memory hits her. It’s a little less blurred than the previous, thanks to the coffee, but it still has her looking to him. The look he gives her in return tells her he knows the subject she’s about to broach.

She frowns, trying to will the memory away and let the question trip off her tongue. It more stumbles than trips.

“Did we—? I don’t remember exactly,” (a blatant lie) “but we might’ve—?”

“We did,” he answers bluntly, sparing further blushes. She nods. That’s okay. She can deal with it. She’s an adult, sex happens. Sometimes it happens between strangers, sometimes it happens between old friends (for a second—no, third—time).

“Right. That’s fine,” she says, sitting up and taking a final sip of her coffee. The thumping in her head is clearing, at last. She laughs as she remembers something. “We didn’t get the tablecloths. You know, the ones for Meena.”

“Oh, pity. Shall we go back for them when the car’s fixed?”

“That could take all day,” she says, eyeing him.

“We’ll be forced to stay the night.”

She rolls her eyes. “Terrible.”

“There is a hotel around here. Could book a room. Just in case,” he adds.

Molly doesn’t bother to hide her smile; she’d fail spectacularly if she did. “I’ll call Meena with the bad news.”


	220. Board Games. (Teenlock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thenworld asked: "sherlock and molly discover they both have a very quirky/peaceful/mundane hobby and they decide to get together to do it".
> 
> There's a shot in TEH that's always bothered me, of a chess set put between Sherlock and Mycroft - only for the reveal to show they're playing Operation. But why would Sherlock bother putting out the chess set? This is my theory. (Not really to be taken that seriously.)
> 
> Tiny bit of teenlock in the beginning.

They discover the habit in secondary school. He’s hunched over the table, eyeing the set in front of him. He’s got his King, his Queen and a bishop left. The other side has just two rooks, a King and a knight.

Her weight sinks against him as she leans over him, one arm resting against his shoulder and her other arm support, propping up against the desk. He glances towards her in greeting, giving a small grunt of “hello”.

“Who’s your opponent?”

“Hypothetical,” he says by way of explanation.

“Oh yeah,” she replies, realising. “Christmas holidays are coming up, aren’t they?” She straightens herself up, away from him, and moves to sit opposite him. He flicks his eyes up as he moves the knight free from its place beside a rook.

“Current numbers are 17 to 17.” Though he’s concentrating, his mouth tilts with a smile, looking up to her. “Next game could make me.”

She shakes her head, chuckling. “What I’d give to see Mycroft’s face…”

“I’ll take a photograph,” he says, watching as she leans forward and moves his Queen diagonally across the board. She takes the captured knight between her fingers and drops it at the left side of the board.

“Generous of you.” 

He scans the board for a moment. Moves the white rook five spaces forward. A deliberately bad move, which she punishes by moving his Queen sideways and plucking the white rook from the board. She gives a grin as she drops it beside the captured knight.

“You’re not half bad.”

“Dad and me – we like to play sometimes. You know?”

“I doubt you’re as competitive as my brother and I.” He risks moving the King one square to the right. Molly takes the white bishop and moves it diagonally across the board.

Sherlock frowns. “In three more moves, you’ll probably achieve checkmate over me.”

The school bell rings in the distance. Molly shrugs.

“Such a pity.” She rises to her feet, helping him put away the seat. “Continue tomorrow?”

He grins at that, and she beams back at him.

* * *

**_20 years later._ **

It’s not the best chess set in the world. Not the well-polished sets one might see in a film, when the director is determined to show just how intellectual their character is. It’s well-maintained, but chips and scratches come with age. He sets it out over breakfast, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with a slice of toast in one hand as he takes each piece from the box. It’s muscle memory at this point, where which piece is meant to go and how long it takes for him to set it out. He checks the clock on the wall as he works. He’s early, but he doubts that’ll cause any raised eyebrows.

“Chess? At this time of the morning?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, getting to his feet.

“I like a game, now and then.” He passes Mycroft on his way to the kitchen. He busies himself there, disposing of the toast, switching on the kettle. Mycroft wanders towards the bookshelves.

“Mummy banned us from chess,” he says idly, searching through the shelves. “What was the final score in the end?”

Sherlock smirks, returning to the living room. He settles back into his chair. “45 – 47.”

“That 18th game always worked in your favour,” Mycroft sighs, taking Operation out from its place atop a set of literary classics (a present from his mother, which he still hasn’t looked at). Sherlock eyes his brother as Mycroft sits opposite him.

“You didn’t come here to play a board game.”

“You’re right, little brother, as usual,” Mycroft dumps the game onto the coffee table between them, quirking an eyebrow at Sherlock. “Now – best of three?”


	221. Dreaming. (Rey/Kylo Ren)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompted: "Star Wars/Reylo- one of them explains to the other what their favorite body part of theirs is."
> 
> I had [Binary Sunset](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u2W5YPQJqUs&t=1m55s) in my head all the way through writing this.

It isn’t love. It isn’t his brain. It is multitudes. As she lies there in the dark, eyes closed, hands crossed over her lap, she explores the avenues, the threads of memories and dreams. To sink into his mind is like second nature. 

Tonight he dreams of a desert planet and its sunset. She’s sitting among fading smoke and the remains of a home. Two suns hang in the sky, chasing each other. Jakku is not like this place. Jakku was a workplace for a little lost girl. (Is that what she is? Still?)

She feels him, rather than sees him, approach. He stops, standing with his hands by his side. In his left he holds an old pilot’s helmet. A piece of salvaged scrap covered in a thin layer of dust.

“That’s mine,” she says. He holds it out to her, silent and watching the two suns.

“This is Tatooine,” he tells her. “Your master once lived here.”

The way he speaks pains her for a moment, a pang inside her chest. Rey hugs the helmet against her stomach, wrapping her arms around it. She looks back at the suns. One is dipping below the horizon. The other stays; still hangs on for a little while longer.

“This is a memory?” she asks.

A hint of a smile reaches Kylo’s mouth, but it doesn’t stay for too long. “It’s a tale of a memory.”

Something remembered. She wonders for a moment if anyone else has been shown this tale.

“No,” he says, laughing slightly, and she remembers just how dangerous this is.

She doesn’t understand what it is fully. She knows the fringes of it. Master Luke has spoken of it in sad, soft tones, his eyes lifeless as he remembers: Force bonded. She closes her eyes, shutting away the image of Master Luke before it can be found. When she opens her eyes again, Kylo is staring down at her, eyes narrowed. She sees herself for a moment, determination spitting out the truth about himself. _You’re afraid._

She drops her gaze. Feels the weight of the helmet in her hands. “This is going to end.”

“It will.” He speaks without emotion but somehow it still feels heavy. The reality of what happens between them—of what _is_ happening. “And one of us will have to grieve.”

She doesn’t want to grieve him. She sees grief in Master Luke, has seen it in the General. Felt it when she watched Han’s body fall from the plinth. She knows that grief never goes away. It will fill spaces in her life that she doesn’t yet know exist. It is so much more than killing one’s enemy.

And for a brief second, she feels the Force brimming through her, a second pulse against her skin that she can’t quite control. She closes her eyes.

The connection is broken. She wakes to a distant sound of the ocean and the smell of salt. She sits up, picking up the pilot helmet. Finn brought it back from Jakku for her, as a present.

She puts it on, continuing to breathe. Force Bonded.

It terrifies her, but it terrifies him too and somehow that’s a strange comfort.


	222. Occupations. (Sense & Sensibility AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> consulting-pathologist asked: "Give me an occupation, Miss Morstan, or I shall run mad."
> 
> I got carried away. As is my way.

When Mary went up, she found her cousin sat on the edge of the bed; the letter still in her hands. Her pale hands gently held the paper, which contained barely half a page of writing. Mary hurried forward, sitting beside her cousin. The paper fell from Molly’s fingers with ease against the touch of Mary’s hand. Reading the words, Mary felt her mouth go dry. She shook her head, folding the letter away.

“Molly, this cannot be…”

“He loved me, Mary,” she murmured, her voice so small against the space of the room. “I was sure of that.”

“Then why would he write such a letter?” Mary asked, turning back on her cousin. Frustration and hurt made her words sharp. “He has abandoned you Molly. He has broken a vow—”

“We’re not engaged.” Molly swallowed thickly, lifting her head to meet her cousin. “We never were. That day – when you and Mama left for church, and he visited? I thought then that, perhaps… he would… Every day I was with him, it was implied – as if we were always on the edge…”

“He never did?” Mary frowned. “Not once?”

Calm, a deadly fragile thing, covered Molly’s pale features, her fingers coming to cover her mouth. She gulped—her breath slowing to something shallow, something unheard. A tear rolled down her cheek.

“No.” The confession was faint, her voice breaking with the threat of tears. “Not once.”

Mary reached forward, cupping her cousin’s face. Sympathy in her smile, she drew her thumb over the hollow of Molly’s cheek, wiping away the tear. Molly’s eyelids fluttered close. Mary pressed her forehead to her cousin’s, sighing.

“Then he is not worthy of you,” she murmured.

“But he _loved_ me.” The brightness of the old belief, of the idea that love would always be enough, was fading, slipping from Molly. She slipped out of Mary’s hold, but laid her head in Mary’s lap, as if she were nothing more than a child—an infant seeking comfort. Mary settled her hand against her cousin’s hair, drawing her fingers through the thin strands. Bound to secrecy as she was, she spoke of nothing as Molly wept; she made no confessions. However much her heart yearned for it, she would not unburden herself. Her cousin had already endured too much.

* * *

“I can tell them you are taken ill,” Mary said softly. The afternoon had fallen into evening, and already a maid had been twice sent up by their hostess to inquire after the young Miss Hooper’s health. Laid on the bed, Molly shifted, sitting up. She shook her head, settling her hands into her lap.

“No, no. Mrs Hudson will simply come up herself to check upon me, and I cannot face her.” Molly gave a small smile. “I wish I could.”

Mary chuckled gently, settling a hand onto her cousin’s shoulder. “Mrs Hudson can only be faced by the strongest of women, Molly. How about I tell them you’ll be down in your own time?”

“Do,” Molly murmured, withdrawing from the bed. Slowly, she opened their trunk, searching through the clothes. Mary frowned and stepped forward.

“Molly – what are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” her cousin admitted.

“We’re not to leave for two more days.”

“I’m sick of London,” Molly said, her tone cold. A spilling of the truth, her true feelings. “I’m sick of balls, of the noise – of owing people courtesy—”

The door behind Mary burst open, a courteous knock accompanying the gesture. Mary immediately turned, bowing her head when she was met with the pained expression of Mrs Hudson’s concern.

“I’ve just heard the news! I was on my return here,” Mrs Hudson explained, her words an unstoppable tide, “when Miss Morton, who is indeed a great friend of mine, told me of Mr Sharpe’s new fiancée – her name, it is said, is Miss Grey, and she, it is said, possesses fifty thousand pounds!”

A noise, a hollow thud against wood, made Mrs Hudson pause. Molly seemed to have been thrust forward by this news, as if she had been felled by a great weight, and now tightly held the sides of the trunk with whitened knuckles, her breaths shallow. Mrs Hudson tutted, hurrying forward.

“No, do not worry yourself dear. It’s all too clear that he is not a good man. What good man would abandon a pretty face such as yours for fifty thousand pounds?”

As if possessed, Molly ran from the trunk, which fell to the floor with a great noise in her wake, and threw herself onto the bed, her head in her hands as she sobbed. Mary rushed forward, kneeling on the floor, gathering up the spilled garments.

“Oh dear,” Mrs Hudson said, genuine sympathy behind her social concern. “This is a sad situation. I will send you a maid to help – and perhaps seek something out to soothe your cousin?”

“That would be a good idea,” Mary answered, feeling herself become increasingly eager to have Mrs Hudson remove herself from the room.

Mrs Hudson’s brow furrowed with her voice softening as she glanced towards Molly. “How is she about fruit cake?”

“Amiable enough,” Mary replied and finally, Mrs Hudson departed, delicately closing the door behind her with one final look towards Molly. When she was gone, Mary went to her cousin. She reached out, linking her fingers with Molly’s. Her cousin continued to weep.

How she wished love could be enough.

* * *

They both slept a little easier on their last night. Their transport to Clevedon had already been arranged, volunteered by Mrs Hawkins, who was eager as them to escape the confines of London. All that remained was to write a letter to her aunt, begging for advice as to some way of travelling from Clevedon to Barton. On finishing the letter, Mary was disturbed by a knock on the drawing room door. Colonel Holmes was announced, and Mary duly called for him to be sent in.

He possessed a melancholy manner as he stepped into the drawing room, his face drawn in concern. He glanced back at the door, his eyes briefly moving up before they came to settle upon Mary.

“I came to inquire – I hear your cousin is ill.”

“Not ill, but she does suffer.” Mary took in a sharp breath. “Mr Sharpe has become engaged.”

He cleared his throat, shifting on his feet. “Did he not—?”

“No.” Mary shook her head. “Though we all believed he did. Yet Molly will not hear a word against him.”

A familiar impish look touched Colonel Holmes’ features, a brief disappearance of the melancholy. “I would expect that of her.”

“You know her disposition. But Mrs Hudson insists on calling him a degenerate. It has been a trying few days,” Mary confessed, with an attempt of a smile. Her efforts were returned with a smile just as lacklustre. Mary returned to the writing desk, picking up the letter. “I was going to ask you if you could deliver this for me, to my aunt. The Hawkins’ family has agreed to take us to Clevedon, but we have no further transport to take us to Barton.”

“Allow me. It’s barely a day’s travel. I’d much rather accompany you to Barton than deliver a letter, if you’ll permit.”

Mary burst out a smile, a real smile, in her relief. “That is more than I could’ve hoped for. Thank you Colonel. I will tell Molly that you were here.”

“Thank you.” Colonel Holmes bowed, heading for the door.

A thought suddenly caught Mary, and bade her to call him back. “Colonel.”

“Yes, Miss Morstan?”

Her words began slowly.

“You spoke only once of Mr. Sharpe, I remember. You said he should endeavour to deserve my cousin.” It was a risk, to speak of words that had, in the moment of their utterance, been so revealing as to the manner and feelings of the man who had spoken them. The reward to her risk was, at first, silence.

Then he turned his head towards her, his mouth opening as if to speak. But his words were swallowed back, and his brow sank into a frown. “Look after your cousin, Miss Morstan.”

Mary left her answer unsaid, and bid him good afternoon.

* * *

The journey towards Clevedon was as long as expected, the endurance of it eased along by Mrs Hudson’s gift of a basket. Having given instructions to her servants to fill it to the brim with food, she had presented the gift with numerous wishes for a safe journey. Mrs Hawkins’ children, glad for the presence of food, had dived into the basket before they’d even left the gates.

“Will we see Thomas soon?” one of the children, Gus, asked his mother as he chewed on a bite of fruit cake. His mother immediately looked alarmed at the question, and gently bade him to be quiet. Molly, seemingly asleep, opened her eyes at the name and turned towards their new host.

“Thomas?” she asked, though her voice was thin. Mary peered at her, frowning.

“Molly—” Her attention was caught by Mrs Hawkins’ sad answer.

“Thomas Sharpe. We see his house on top of our hill,” she explained, her tone hesitant. Mary looked back at her cousin. Molly’s eyes were closed once more; her head was leaned back against the back of the carriage. Her cheeks were flushed pink as she soundly slept.

It was late afternoon when they arrived at Clevedon. Molly woke as the carriage drew up to the house doors. Blinking, she looked to her sister.

“We’re arrived?” she asked quietly. Mary nodded.

“You slept all the way,” she replied. The carriage door opened, and Colonel Holmes stepped forward as the Hawkins’ family climbed out of the carriage, holding out his hand. Molly politely took his hand as she stepped out, but her manner seemed quite absent, her mind lost in thought. Mary thanked the colonel and moved towards her cousin. Her hand touched at Molly’s upper arm.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Molly said, distracted. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”

Mary glanced up, scanning the greying sky.

“It won’t rain,” Molly called over her shoulder, already making her way away from the carriage and down the gravel path towards the greenery of the garden.

“Stay close,” Mary called, though the words were more of a plea. (It could be nothing more.) She watched her until she was nothing but a small figure. Part of her ached to run after her, but she knew her cousin as much as she knew herself. She prided herself on that fact. More than anything, she knew when her cousin needed to be alone.

* * *

Grey rain streaked down the windows of the parlour, thin raindrops chasing one another. Her eyes swept towards the grandfather clock. Every tick it made gave her more doubt. She wished it would stop.

“Where did she say she would go?”

The voice at her side surprised her, and she blinked, looking toward the speaker. Mrs Hawkins pressed a cup of sweet tea into her palm. Mary took it with quiet thanks, her eyes on the garden and its stone boundary. The tall iron gate swung open, moving with the wind.

“She didn’t say a specific place,” she answered, but she did not elaborate. It was too clear where her cousin had gone.

Mrs Hawkins nodded.

“Holmes will find her.” She appeared pained for a moment, regretful. “I should never have told her. I’m sorry, Miss Morstan.”

“Don’t be sorry Mrs Hawkins,” Mary began, the vestiges of a standard comfort—it fell away from her when Holmes appeared at the gate. In his arms, he carried her cousin. Mary swallowed, her throat dry, as she looked at her host. “But do fetch a doctor.”

Quickly, she ran down the stairs from the drawing room and into the hall. Running towards the front door, she wrenched it open. Holmes staggered inside.

Her cousin was pale, half-awake, and trembled in Holmes’ arms. Holmes collapsed to his knees, still holding Molly tightly. Mary hurried towards her cousin, sinking down beside her and holding her face in her hands.

“Is she injured?” she asked quickly, looking to Holmes. He sank away from Molly, allowing Mary to cuddle her cousin close. Mary repeated her question, her tone harsher for her worry.

“N-no,” he said. “But she – she has to be warm.”

Mrs Hawkins, followed by her husband, ran into the hall. Quickly, Mrs Hawkins’ husband gathered Molly up into his arms. Mary hurried on behind as her cousin was taken up the stairs. As she followed, she looked back. Holmes was slowly beginning to stand. His blue eyes locked with Mary’s. For the first time in their acquaintance, Mary found fear in the colonel’s appearance.

* * *

An infectious fever, was their conclusion. All they could do was wait and see if she was strong enough to fight it off. Sherlock had never felt so useless in his life. He paced, waiting and hoping, outside the room where she lay. He’d always made himself, moulded himself, into such a private being. A creature who never urged conversation from someone he knew to be below his intellect and never smiled unless social niceties demanded it.

Meeting Miss Hooper had broken that down. From the moment he’d seen her play that damned piano. And without a thought, she had conducted a deconstruction of him to such a point where his mind was consumed with nothing but worry for a woman who thought of nothing but friendship for him. He sighed shakily as he sank into a chair. His hands threaded against his hair. Friendship, he had decided long ago, was enough. She loved another, deeply and truly; it was not his place to tell her she was wrong, but—oh God, he could kill Sharpe if she commanded it. That boy’s carelessness had led her to the brink, and led him to this.

The room’s door opened. Sherlock shot to his feet. Miss Morstan entered the corridor. For a moment, she did not notice him. For that moment, Sherlock watched her wipe her eyes and brush herself down. Her gained composure did not leave her when she turned to see him. If anything, she seemed to look at him and immediately understand. Or, at least, see a kindred spirit.

“How is she?”

“She…” Miss Morstan paused. A certain decision, not to hide behind false hope, entered her look. “Her progression is slow. The doctor is very worried.”

 _As are you_ , Sherlock thought, his eyes scanning Mary’s gaunt look and pale skin. He let out a heavy breath.

“Is there something – anything – she needs?”

“Colonel, you’ve done everything possible.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, no – there has to be _something_. I – I – please. Give me an occupation, Miss Morstan. Or I shall run mad.”

Her sombre look mellowed into sympathy.

“Perhaps – if my aunt was here, that might help her.”

Such an answer seemed so obvious that he gave a slight smile and wondered why he had not volunteered it. He breathed easier.

“Thank you.” It was softly spoken, his agreement to the task. Nodding once to bid Miss Morstan goodbye, he departed and called for his horse.

* * *

Miss Hooper’s mother did not hesitate when he imparted the news to her. Bidding him to wait, she called for her carriage, gathering her things for the journey. The rise of early morning marked the end of their journey back to Clevedon. Miss Morstan was there to greet them, running from the house with tears staining her cheeks and pinked eyes. Time froze for a moment as he feared the worst but reality rushed back to him when Miss Morstan spoke.

“The worst is over. It’s over,” she repeated with relief, hurrying to take her aunt to her daughter. Sherlock followed, standing awkwardly in the doorway as he watched Mrs Hooper rush into the room, towards her daughter. She kissed her forehead and held her hand tight. Miss Hooper blinked blearily and called for her cousin. Mary stepped forward.

“Here – I’m here,” she said, a break of joy in her calm. Sherlock lowered his gaze, bowing his head as he stepped back. Miss Hooper was out of danger and in need of her family; her mother and the cousin she treated more like a sister.

“Colonel.”

At first, he looked to Mary, expecting a question. She said nothing. He turned his head to find brown eyes looking straight at him.

“Thank you.” Her illness was taking her energy—it was more than likely she would sleep, perhaps wake in fits and starts. Therefore the thanks was only a small, earnest whisper. Sherlock bowed his head.

“You’re welcome, Miss Hooper.”


	223. One Shade the More. (Inception AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inception AU, not a prompt fill. The title comes from Lord Byron’s poem “She Walks in Beauty”.

The sheer cliff face stands below him, his feet planted against long grass. If he stares down, it’s like staring down into magma, into the very centre of the earth but it’s only yellow and blue. Sand and ocean, grey in the dying light. He cranes his neck, looking back. 

The world behind is a separate universe from his cliff face. Grey towers, glass buildings, red vehicles with adverts stretched across them. Tarmac lined with yellow markings, with white stripes. Yellow lights reflect on his skin. It’s a blank canvas, scraps of other cities hidden among its walls. A lamp post from London, a bridge from Berlin. Places he’s been, wrapped up in one picture to represent nothing.

He sighs, breathes; steps forward. The city, as he steps in, moves and he blends into the crowd, wrapping his coat around him as he glances back.

The cliff is gone.

He carries on.

Then he sees her face. Brown eyes, brown hair. He moves against the crowd now, body dictating his actions; he wrenches her round, his fingers against her arm. She smiles.

The coffee shop is quiet, different faces glancing and looking. They sit in a corner. Her fingers tap against the wood of the table. The faces briefly glare. He fidgets in his seat.

“What’s the job?” she asks; everything about her is bright, cheerful.

“The usual,” he answers. He can’t stay with her, never for long. “Rival companies, corporate secrets. Stuff you all know.”

She says nothing for a long, pained moment.

He’s reaching forward before he can stop it, before he can draw back. He holds her hand. A simple, quiet gesture. She shifts her hand back, threading their fingers together. It’s like touching heated metal. He shrinks back. Faces pause for a moment, glaring at the abnormality. He clears his throat.

“You need to stay here.” He stands, putting on his coat, retrieving his gloves. Normalcy.

“Of course,” she says, always accommodating. “Where else would I go?”

He pauses, but turns around before he can stop himself, ducking down—his lips kiss the side of her forehead, a touch above her temple. He turns his cheek towards her, hesitating, sharing a breath with her. She turns her head, a comment on her lips, but he takes it with another kiss, his palm sliding against her jaw and his chest hitching. He could stay there forever, but he stands anyway.

Her brown eyes flick towards the faces as he draws away. “They’re still looking.”

“It was worth a try."

* * *

 

He ends up outside, hurrying on through the crowd of faces. They’re still glaring, still curious.

“A moment of your time sir?” A face approaches him, eyes blue, with a sweetheart shape framed by blonde curls. He sighs, shaking his head.

“I don’t have time—”

The face grips him by the arm, steering him back round, until he’s facing them, watching the blonde curls fade away. The blue eyes grow sharp, less naïve. The Woman gives a thin-lipped smile.

“You can’t let her go.”

He sighs, the sound soon lost against the bustle of this city, a place plucked from his mind. A smile still comes to his mouth. “You haven’t lost your touch.”

“You have.”

He bristles, a stab of pride which he covers with a glare. He continues walking.

“It’s under control.”

“Can’t imagine what it’d be like if you didn’t,” the Woman replies, falling into step beside him. There’s sympathy heavy in her voice, which he hates. He’s had enough sympathy for a lifetime. Flicking the collar of his coat up to his cheeks, he scans the faces. After a moment, he nods.

“Found the target.” He’s off before he can think any more about brown eyes and a woman patiently waiting.

* * *

Blinking himself awake, he turns his head, gathering in his surroundings. The white walls of the train are lit by florescent lights, greenery a blur flitting past. His fingers instinctively slide into his jacket’s inner pocket, touching what brings him back to reality. It’s nothing more than a piece of old jewellery but he knows the weight of it, and that makes him breathe.

Around him, they’re waking. John stirs, rubbing his eyes as he sits up. The Woman wakes easily, with a sigh and a stretch before jumping to her feet. Mary is already working, tidying away the evidence of their work. Sherlock gets to his feet, taking his bag from the overhead shelf. Their subject is calm, oblivious to the activity around him.

“Best to get off at the next station,” John says, buttoning up his suit jacket and straightening his tie. He’s adept at making himself a businessman, making himself a creature that’s easy to remember, and even easier to forget.

“I’ll go with you,” Mary volunteers, turning her head. “Irene?”

“I’m not staying around longer than I need to,” comes the reply. The Woman slings a bag over her shoulder, disappearing before any of them have a chance to answer.

Departing the train, moving through the crowds of commuters and wide-eyed travellers, Sherlock waits until he’s alone to begin his routine. The hotel room, booked for only one night, is luxurious enough. Stifling if he stays too long. The lights of the city reflect against polished glass. Beyond, he sees skyscrapers designed to look like flames, apartment blocks designed to look like government buildings. Golden yellow lights up the walls of a medieval city, a reminder of the place’s history. Of old against new. It’s reality but it feels enough like a dream that he holds his totem in hand and feels its weight. Over and over until the dialling tone stops and a voice answers.

“The job went well then,” his brother says in greeting.

“One of the easier ones.” Sherlock heads towards the bathroom and runs himself a shower. He tests the water. It easily runs warm. “Not surprising. Subject hadn’t been introduced to extraction.”

On the other end of the line, Mycroft sighs. The sound crackles. “Sounds remarkably dull.”

“It was,” Sherlock replies, walking back into the bedroom. He sinks onto the sofa, a blank television screen hanging above him. The shower continues to run.

“Still, enough money to get you back,” Mycroft remarks and he almost ( _almost_ ) pauses at that. Mycroft leaves it a while before he speaks again. “How long has it been? This time?”

“I’ve lost count.” 193 days. More than half a year. Just over.

“Understandable,” Mycroft says, calmly taking the lie. “You haven’t got a calendar.”

A half-heartedly dry remark which produces half-amusement. Sherlock feels the weight of his totem, glancing half-heartedly at the gold between his fingers before he tucks it against his palm again, hiding it away.

“No I haven’t.”

Another pause on Mycroft’s end. Sherlock leans forward, dropping the totem on the coffee table (more well-polished glass). It lands with a clatter. He sighs as his hand sinks into his hair.

“She wants to see you.”

He’s prepared, but it’s still a blow. His half-amusement, so soon faded, returns. It grows into a smile.

“Obviously.”

He hangs up. The shower’s water splatters against the bathtub. He pulls himself to his feet, abandoning his phone against the sofa, entering into the bathroom. Leaning down, he switches off the shower. For the rest of the night, for the flight back, he doesn’t sleep.

* * *

They’ve grown used to him by now. His unkempt appearance after the flights is familiar, as is his manner. He tries to be kind, and tries to blame his way on jet lag, but in certain situations, he is a terrible liar and they don’t believe a word.

Signing his name on paper, he’s escorted with soft words through corridors he’s already memorised. The words become ever gentler when they open the door. Sat on a mass-produced bed among mass-produced bedsheets which are muted in colour, she sighs.

“You don’t need to talk to me like that,” she says, irritable. His escort, a member of staff trained in the ways of calming people down, nods. His voice rises to an audible level but he keeps his tone even.

“Alright. You’ve got a visitor.”

She turns her head, lifting up her eyes. The brown colour is richer than he remembers. Her hair is shorter. He should’ve been here sooner; his image of her is no longer accurate, and that’s the worst thing he can possibly do. She smiles.

193 days. Just over a year.

“Hello.”

His gaze slides towards the left wall. A calendar, with small numbers ticked off in blue, hangs there. It’s showing its age, its edges curled. He looks back.

“Afternoon,” he answers smoothly, all at once wishing he could stutter and stumble and show her somehow, that he has missed her.

“I’ll leave you alone,” his escort says, smiling a generic smile and closing the door behind him as he leaves. Sherlock sits on the bed. Without thought, she reaches down, covering the back of his gloved hand with her palm.

“Sorry,” he mutters suddenly, taking his hand from underneath hers. Quickly, he tugs off his gloves, shoving them away in his coat pocket. “Forgot.”

They sit like this for a long while, her cross-legged dressed in a cardigan and jeans, the cherry pattern of her jumper (it’s old, something she’d abandoned long ago) covering a white vest which peeks out under the hem. He’s in a suit and a dark-coloured coat with bare hands, awkward, uncomfortable, but wanting to be nowhere else but here.

“Irene phoned me,” she tells him, optimism for conversation at the fringes of her words. “We didn’t talk of much – just how she was, really. I felt like she wanted to tell me something. But when I asked…”

“It’s alright. The job went fine. Subject was an elderly CEO – and he didn’t know what extraction was, so that was an advantage. Has Mycroft visited you?”

“Enough times that I told him to bugger off.”

Her eyes twinkle with something old. At her words, he laughs.

“I’m sure he didn’t approve.”

“No, he didn’t,” she says, shaking her head. “Even tried to remind me why I was here in the first place. Like I could forget,” she adds, her voice softening and her smile fading.

She curls up beside him, her legs curving up to her chest and her head lying in his lap. She shivers and hugs herself close.

“Cold?” he asks.

“No.”

He cradles her head with his left hand, the fingers of his right hand tracing over her hair. She closes her eyes, her body relaxing into the touch. He’s reminded quite suddenly of the privileges his brother’s protection brings her.

“Where is it?” she asks, out of the blue. Surprised, he blinks, but he reaches into his jacket pocket all the same, feeling the weight of the totem.

“Here.” He presses it into her palm. She rolls the gold band between her forefinger and thumb. She slides it onto her finger, balling her hand up into a fist. He knows exactly what she’s searching for. She’s trying to find, feel, what he finds with ease, every time he touches it. He drops his left hand from her hair to touch the high of her back. He rubs circles against the rough material of her cardigan.

For a moment, when she hasn’t spoken, his chest goes tight and he wonders if she’s fallen asleep. He clutches her shoulder, but doesn’t shake her. She opens her eyes.

She speaks, not looking at him, and her voice is blank.

“What proves you’re in a dream?”

“You can never explain how you got there,” he answers.

She steadies herself, breathing through her nose. “What – proves – you’re in a dream?”

He remembers strands of silver hair and wrinkles threaded around brown eyes. An imagined city of skyscrapers and home.

“You never age.”

He feels her cheeks after a moment, gently touching his thumb to her skin. Wet. He wipes, bends his head, kissing her temple, but it’s no use. It always boils down to the same damn thing. Every time, on every visit.

Just like a dream.


	224. Wake Up Call. (Breakfast at Tiffany's AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for Sherlolly Appreciation Week (6-12 March), on the fourth day, which was "Non-Canon: AU/Crossover". And anyone who's read anything of my stuff knows how much of a weakling I am for AUs. I went with a Breakfast at Tiffany's AU because Molly as Holly Golightly? Perfect match. I mean, c'mon. They both have cats and everything.
> 
> This could be part of a bigger thing. I'm not too sure.

_Bzzz._

Three weeks, on the dot. 

_Bzzz._

21 days exactly. Sherlock Holmes opens his eyes to dark with a glare already on his features. He cranes his neck, looking around. His fingers fumble against the light switch of his bedside lamp; a click precedes a blast of yellow light in his eyes. 

He groans, rolling onto his stomach and half off the bed. He hangs there for a moment, his torso free from the covers, his fingers trailing against the wooden floor.

“Three weeks,” he mumbles to himself. More buzzing has him groaning again and rolling onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “22…”

He decides he hates that number.

He sits up, throws back his covers. Pads from the bedroom to his front door.

“I heard you the first time,” he snaps in reply to the fifth buzz of the evening. Too impatient to use fingers, he slams his palm against the button. There’s another buzz, a different buzz, and he knows his duty is over for tonight. He turns, rubbing his eyes blearily.

It’s when he’s sat back in bed that he looks at his alarm. The big hand points to six. The little hand follows its path. He manages a laugh as he slips back into bed, pulling the covers over himself.

“Half six. Impressive,” he mumbles, a final comment on his way back into sleep.

* * *

The next encounter he has with No. 22 has him on the back foot from the start. It’s him this time, who’s stumbling towards the flat block’s front door in the wee small hours as he rummages inside his coat pockets. There’s no small scratch against his fingers or his palm, no tell-tale sign of what he should always have on his person. Swallowing, giving a sigh, he reaches forward and presses the button for flat number 22.

The front door unlocks after a moment. Stepping inside, letting the front door close behind him, he jogs up the two flights of stairs towards his flat.

He’s inclined to pass No. 22. He almost does. Almost breezes on by, more eager to find the spare key under his doormat and slip inside his flat unnoticed.

Then No. 22’s door opens. Just by an inch, and there’s a woman stood behind. Bleary-eyed, in a night shirt, her brown hair tangled. Her accusation is short, but not so crisp. Clumsy. If anything.

“You woke me.”

“You wake me on a regular basis,” he retorts, sliding his hand underneath his doormat. He finds the spare key without trouble. Looking back to the woman as he straightens up, he finds her frowning at him.

“Do I?”

He points to his flat door. “No. 21.”

She tilts her head, leaning forward as if she needs to see the evidence with her own eyes. She sighs and draws back, convinced. 

“Oh. Sorry. I keep trying to remember my key, but—” A yawn takes away the rest of her sentence. She shrugs, leaning her head against the jamb of her door. “‘s difficult.”

“Keep it in a bowl on a shelf,” he replies, sliding his spare key into the lock. “Or hang it on a hook. Somewhere it’ll be in your eye line.”

“Do you do that?” she asks, gently rubbing her eyes of sleep.

“Obviously.”

“Hm.” There’s something in that low noise at the back of her throat which has him look at her again. It’s not a sound of feigned disinterest, but a quite genuine amusement. He narrows his eyes.

“What is it?”

She smiles, starts to close her door. “G’night – No. 21.”

He calls her back, for something he forgets somehow as soon as she looks at him again. Her eyes are brown and, now they’re a little less bleary, warm. She blinks. An invitation for his forgotten question. He clears his throat.

“You’re not going out again, are you?” It’s not the question he wanted to ask, but it’s a question anyway.

She catches onto the meaning of it. A smile flicks up at the corners of her mouth.

“I’ll remember my key,” she says, crossing her fingers. “Promise.” 

She shuts her flat door as a way of goodbye. For the first time in a long while, Sherlock Holmes is left rather bemused.


	225. Instincts. (Jurassic World AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cripes, another AU. I'm really into them at the moment apparently. Not a prompt fill. Inspired by that [first Claire/Owen scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1IdnihhJJwc) in Jurassic World because I need my nerds overtly flirting with each other.

The phone rang with an irritating urgency. Sherlock picked up the call after the third ring, the preference for hanging up soon rising.

“Where are you? Stamford tells me you just – disappeared. In the middle of a board meeting,” his brother added.

“I’m on my way,” Sherlock replied. His grip on the steering wheel tightened, and he breathed. His grip relaxed. “Just like you told me to.”

“Two days ago.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy to deal with the asset?”

“It’s not exactly my level of expertise, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped. “You’ve said so yourself.”

“Must we rake over old ground? You asked to be taken off the science division of the company,” Mycroft said. The line crackled. Sherlock glanced up through the windscreen at the tall trees. Hopefully there would be a full loss of signal soon.

“I simply put you where your strengths lie,” Mycroft continued. “Have the board been told?”

“No. I am capable of following instruction.”

Mycroft chuckled, another crackle accompanying the sound. Sherlock drove faster down the muddy path, deeper into the jungle.

“Forgive me for having a degree of cynicism.”

Finally, the beep came. Once, twice, and then his brother was gone. The car, coming to the end of the jungle path, broke out of the trees and towards the water’s edge. Sherlock glanced over the site in front of him as he parked. The caravan was there, the shack more ramshackle than he remembered it. He stopped as he walked past the trestle table, examining the artefacts on its surface. Part of the leg bone of a brontosaurus, filed alongside the fragment of hip bone from a brachiosaurus.

“What do you need?” The call had him turning. She was knelt on the grass, tools around her and her motorbike in front of her. Her hair was swept back into a ponytail, her clothing loose and scuffed with marks of grease and oil. Her worst clothes; specifically kept for mechanical work. She wiped her fingers free of oil as she tilted her head, looking towards him. “The science department send you?”

Sherlock glanced back towards the table. “Where did you get these? Always thought you had a preference for living dinosaurs over dead.”

“If I’m going to have an understanding of them, I need to know everything about them,” she replied, standing and approaching him. She came to a stop, settling her hands against her hips. “And I have a friend in the science division, since you ask.”

“A very good friend clearly.”

Her eyes narrowed, the corners of her mouth tilting upwards. (A threat of a smile.) “You’re not here to discuss dinosaur bones.”

“Correct.”

“Mm.” She turned away from him, hurrying up the steps of the shack, glancing over her shoulder at him. “So what do you need?”

“You, Miss Hooper, to come and look at something. An asset, my brother terms it.”

Her hands in her hair, scooping her ponytail into a bun, she frowned at him. “When did I become Miss Hooper?”

“The asset is a new attraction for the park,” Sherlock explained, ignoring her grin. “It’s a new species – recently created. It opens in three weeks. They need an – expert to come and look at it.”

She swung herself down into a chair, folding her hands against her stomach. “Why didn’t they ask you? You’re as much of an expert as I am.”

“I’m no longer considered qualified. No longer on the scientific division,” he added. Her smile quickly faded. She sat forward, her mouth opening; a question on her tongue. “Add in your control of the raptors,” Sherlock said quickly, “and you have your answer.”

“It’s _not_ control,” she said with a roll of her eyes, as if she had spent too much time of her life reciting this explanation. “It’s a give-and-take. I respect them – they respect me. Simple as that.”

Sherlock eyed her. “Sounds much like a relationship.”

“As if you’re qualified to talk about such things.” She grinned briefly, before rising out of her chair and returning to her place at the motorbike. Sherlock turned on his heel, watching her resume her work.

“If I recall correctly, neither are you.”

She laughed. “You printed out an itinerary!”

“Which is in an effective way of organising an evening. You, by contrast, turned up in flip flops.”

“We’re in Central America! And, by the way, piece of advice – don’t write ‘11pm – sex a possibility’ on any future… date itinerary. Or on anything, as a matter of fact.”

Sherlock shortly cleared his throat. “Miss Hooper – let’s focus on the asset, shall we? The park’s attraction?”

“Okay.” She fixed her brown eyes on his. “What is the attraction?”

“A new breed. Indominus Rex is its name. We need you to come in and see if it’s safe for public display.”

She paused at his words. Looked back to him. “You – built a new breed of dinosaur? Without checking if it was safe beforehand?”

“It’s an admirable endeavour. You have to admit that.” He descended the steps of the shack, walking towards her. Sinking his hands into his pockets, he stopped and perched against the seat of her motorbike. For a long moment, they stared at each other. He smirked. “Don’t you?”

“That’s the businessman talking.” She stood, folding her arms over her chest. She was stalwart; stubborn. “Look at the – ‘endeavour’ – as a scientist.”

“As a scientist, I know that these dinosaurs, whatever their breed, don’t know they’ve been bred from millennia-old genetics. I know they still hold their natural instincts.”

“Exactly. The instinct to hunt, to feed, to…” A thought crossed her mind, her eyes flickering over his form. Sherlock held her gaze until she cleared her throat and looked away, scratching lightly at her neck, her thumb tracing over gently her collarbone. “Do other things.”

“So?”

“So that means they’re going to react according to those instincts. Research has told us how the already established dinosaur families react. Observation has allowed us to cope with those reactions. Creating a new breed means starting from scratch. You know nothing about this animal – and you think it’ll be safe?” She scoffed, shook her head.

“I take it you won’t be looking at the asset?”

“Animal.” She turned away from him, hurrying into the caravan. Pulling the caravan’s door open, her fingers gripped at the hem of her oil-stained vest, pulling it off over her head as she entered. She reappeared moments later, now wearing a linen shirt.

“Knew you wouldn’t be able to resist,” he called after her as she headed towards the car. She looked back at him, opening the passenger door. She pressed her lips together in thought. For a moment, she considered him. Her lips broke into a smile.

“Never thought I’d see you in a suit.”

Sherlock stood up, jogging towards the car. He glanced at her as they climbed inside and he started the car. “Stranger things have happened, Miss Hooper.”

“Christ – you make me sound like a professor calling me that.”

“It’s a safer career option,” Sherlock smirked and pulled away, back into the jungle.


	226. Bedtime Stories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> biroba, thenworld, the denimofrose and anonymous asked for "things you said when you thought I was asleep" and Sherlolly, from [this prompt list](http://mollymatterrs.tumblr.com/post/141360798000/send-me-a-ship-and-one-of-these-and-ill-write-a). Post His Last Vow AU.

The room is hushed, she’s curled up in blankets of heavy wool, pyjamas fresh (not hers), hair tangled with eyes closed. It’s dry stonewall around them, wind whistling outside. He sinks to the floor, glancing towards her but never quite looking at her. (He can’t allow himself to. If she wakes and finds him here, she’ll wake, fully wake, and she needs to rest, needs to recuperate.) 

They’d got her in time. _Thank God_ , John had said as he’d held Molly’s weight, helping her up the steps into the safe house. Doctors saw to her, leaving John in peace as he’d demanded. Guards were put on patrol. (If he looks out of the window, he’ll see them pass by in the distance, pacing across the length of the beach and talking briefly among themselves.) Him? He’s never been quite the same since she arrived. 

Usually when he solves a case, there’s an immediate need to move to the next case, the next culprit, the next crime. That urge is curiously absent now.

Sherlock closes his eyes. He presses his fingers into his palm, aching for something to hold. A cigarette at best. A stress ball at worst.

“There’s a story my brother used to tell me. Not the East Wind one – you know that story already.” There could be a multitude of reasons why he’s talking. Boredom, stress, an infantile attempt at trying to stay awake. Mostly because he hates this quiet. Ironic considering how much time he spends wishing Mrs Hudson, John, Mary and the rest would cut their speaking time down by (at least) 50%.

“Not a horror story. It was only when he got to 13 that he started trying to scare me. He told me a story of a prince cursed not to touch the ground until he reached his 12th birthday. It was from some book or other – I didn’t bother to remember the title. The curse meant the prince had to be carried everywhere, and travel everywhere by horse. Much to the upset of his parents, obviously. I don’t suppose any parent would be too happy with such a curse. It just serves to make everything more complicated.” He sits up, glances over. Molly is still sleeping. Not registered a word. There’s some kind of relief in that. “The prince was edging closer to his 12th birthday when a page accidentally dropped him onto the ground. A roll of thunder and suddenly – no prince.” 

Sherlock paused. “I don’t know what happened after that,” he admitted. “Mycroft never finished it.”

“A peasant girl saves him.”

He flicks his head up. Molly gives a brief smile, holding onto his gaze.

“You were sleeping.”

“Half-sleeping,” she replies, slowly rolling onto her side. “My dad used to tell me that story. He loved fairy tales.”

Her fingers clutch the edge of the blankets. Wordlessly, she pushes the blankets back. Making room.

Her bottom lip is split; her bruises fading to purple. Surface wounds, surface scars inflicted before they’d managed to find her in the back of a van, tied up and blindfolded. She nods towards the empty side of the bed.

He doesn’t want her getting cold, so he accepts her offer without hesitation. 

She scoops her hair back as he slides into bed beside her. His eyes fall over her, watching her fingers run through the brown strands of her hair, before she slides her hand underneath her cheek, against the pillow. There’s a moment, purposely left. He swallows. Reaches out, letting his hand touch—hold—her wrist lightly. She doesn’t flinch away from him, doesn’t wince or ask him to pull away. Instead she settles deeper against the bed, curling her legs up to her chest. Her body leans close to his. She feels _secure_ around him. That sends his mind spinning, his breath hitching for one wild moment. No-one’s ever felt secure around him. He’s always made sure of that.

Molly Hooper is the exception. 

She breathes, through her nose, before speaking again.

“In the end,” Molly says plainly, telling the story. “The prince haunts his room until the right girl comes along. And one night this girl stays in the room. There’s a reward. But she doesn’t care about that. She just wants to try and help. She’s cooking for herself when the prince, grown, appears to her.” 

He rolls circles into her skin with his thumb. Molly bits briefly on her lip, thinking, pulling the story from her memory. “The prince asks if he can share her food, share her table. She says yes. And that brings him back.”

“Thank you.” He says the words without thinking, leaving them to hang in the air. Then, something else, with even less thought: “Do you – need – anything?”

He means a glass of water, perhaps; or some food. She’s been sleeping (dozing) for a while now. She tugs the blankets over the both of them.

“Just stay.”

Sherlock winds his other arm around her waist to cuddle her close. The scent of her hair is against his nostrils, the material of the freshly pressed pyjamas becomes messed underneath his palm. He dips his head, breath tickling the strands of her hair, lips tracing against her temple. Already half-asleep, she chuckles but doesn’t really register his intention.

He thinks better of the intention anyway. Opts for simply holding her. Just as she asked.

* * *

He waits until she is fully asleep. His fingers now brushing over her hair, he whispers his confession to the room.

“I love you, Molly Hooper.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone wondering, the fairy tale referenced in this is “The Enchanted Prince”, a story of Hungarian origin from the children’s book A Book of Princes & Princesses by Ruth-Manning Saunders.


	227. Things Left Unsaid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nordiskt-samarbete asked for "Sherlolly and things you said with too many miles between us" from [this prompt list](http://mollymatterrs.tumblr.com/post/141360798000/send-me-a-ship-and-one-of-these-and-ill-write-a).

He’s outside a cafe located on the fringes of London, standing in an old red telephone box. He stares down at the burner phone between his fingers; flips it over in his palm. It would take him two changes on the Underground, five stops on a night bus to be back in the thick of it.

He misses London. He misses it so badly. His life now is so far apart from the noise, the intricacies, the winding streets.

It takes him two seconds to make the decision. Another two to tap out the number. On the other end of the line, she leaves it to ring three times before he hears her breathing, every breath shallow, short.

She’s never done this sort of thing before. Neither has he. Jumping over the roofs of London doesn’t count as espionage. He’s learning this as he goes.

Waiting for him to speak, she doesn’t say a single word. He feels it anyway, as easily as he’d feel her if she was sat opposite him right now. Her eyes, her thin mouth which cocks at the edge with the hope of a smile. A pang hits his chest for a brief second.

“Hello,” he starts, swallowing. The pang doesn’t abate.

“I think you’ve got the wrong number,” she replies, her voice kind, but it sounds rehearsed. He closes his eyes, sucking in a breath. Mycroft’s got to her. Instructed her.

“Have I?” he asks finally, opening his eyes again. His gaze follows the path of a stray cat running quickly across the road.

She hesitates. “I don’t know.”

A break. A gap, which allows him to say anything he wants. He opens his mouth, words of polite apology and goodbye already coming to sit on his tongue. (Playing along with the game.)

A knock comes at the glass of the telephone box. Someone’s outside, wrapped up in a coat and scarf, face illuminated by the yellow of the street lamp, hopping from foot to foot as they wait.

He turns back, speaking into the phone.

“I’m alive.” He presses hard on the ‘end call’ button, knowing that the decision he’s made is a decision he already regrets. (Mycroft will not be happy—everything he does, he does to protect his little brother, and his little brother throws it in his face, simply because he can’t stop caring.) Sherlock leaves the telephone box, and retrieves the SIM card from the phone as he hurries away. The casing he dumps in a bin just off the main street.

* * *

She keeps the burner phone in a drawer of her desk in her bedroom. She’s had it for a year and three months. It hasn’t rung once.

So when a cheap trill, muffled and unfamiliar, enters the quiet of her bedroom in the early hours of the morning, she doesn’t recognise it at first. It takes her until the second ring to know; the third ring to pick up.

When she hears his voice, it knocks the wind out of her. It’s been fifteen months since that night. She’s stared at that phone and wondered, over and over, about how she’d find him if he ever rang.

The first thing she notes is that he sounds scared.

She gives the phrase Mycroft ordered her to give, whenever and whatever time Sherlock called. On the other end of the line, he sucks in a breath. She realises in their brief snatch of a conversation. He isn’t scared. He’s lonely.

“I’m alive,” he tells her eventually, a needless statement which has too many meanings. He’s alive, he’s okay, he isn’t hurt. She aches to ask him where he is; if he wants a bed for the night. He’s used her flat before, he can use it again. (Those desires are selfish though. She wants him here because she can’t stop thinking back to the night he died, and how they left things. She wants him here because she wants _him_.)

The other end of the line goes quiet. The conversation is over.


	228. Midnight Worries. (Mary Morstan/John Watson)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thenworld asked for "mary/john things you said when you thought I was asleep" from [this list](http://mollymatterrs.tumblr.com/post/141360798000/send-me-a-ship-and-one-of-these-and-ill-write-a).

They’ve had an argument about the washing up. She’s slammed the bedroom door as he’s left, and lay on the bed, her hands curving around her swollen stomach. It’s so strange to have an argument when you can barely move. You’re there, waddling against the weight of another human inside you but your rage, the adrenaline of it, makes you feel as if you could conquer the world and damn the consequences.

Then the door slams and the weight comes back to you, forcing you to sit down. She lies on her side of the bed, the bedroom lights turned off, but unable to sleep. (Her mother always said never to go to sleep on an argument.)

John comes in silently, giving no greeting. He moves around the room, his shoulders hunched. He doesn’t know how to approach conflicts as domestic as these. Bigger conflicts, he’s marvellous at those. They both are. Little tiffs and bickering are still new; they still feel like shaky ground. 

Real life is so messy.

Sometimes she wishes she could skip past this bit and get to the part where’s everything’s soaked in sunshine and she’s surrounded by family and friends, her baby burbling away in her arms as she jokes and laughs. (She’s had that dream before, with other faces, but the baby is a new addition.) That part is never given though. That part is a punchline, and first things first, you’ve got to get through the set-up.

Sherlock’s off in Ireland, still tracking Molly down. He’d been so breathtakingly, _arrogantly_ confident, getting off the plane with a plan fully in his head to defeat the new villain in their path. That confidence had drained off when the intelligence had come through. Turned out there had been another layer to Mycroft’s anger. From the moment they’d got onto the plane and discovered Sherlock high off his head, Mycroft had been trying to tell his little brother that the quiet pathologist had disappeared. (The drugs had got in the way. Not for the first time, Mary suspected.)

“It’s my fault.” She cups her belly with both hands, staring down at it. Through the material of a maternity top, she feels a twinge. A kick of the baby, their little girl, at the sound of her mother’s voice. “I wanted to bring you into something calm. From the moment Sherlock told us of you. Bloody bugger – he couldn’t have brought it up some time before, could he? Didn’t even bother making a suggestion of me taking a pregnancy test. He’s a dramatic sort though. The amount you kick and move around in there, I think you’ll like him. He’ll like you.”

If he comes back. She feels so useless, an elephant unable to move. She almost wishes that her daughter would hurry things up a bit; be a couple of weeks premature. Other days she wants her baby to stay warm and safe in her belly until Sherlock returns with Molly and she can have that sun-soaked punchline she’s dreaming of.

“If I hadn’t been so bloody paranoid about Magnussen…” She sighs. “I started all of this.”

“I’m trying to sleep.”

The words are grunted into his pillow. She whips her head round. John groans and shifts. His arm comes out from underneath the blankets, fumbling for the bedside lamp. He’s silhouetted by yellow as he turns his head, looking at her.

“It is my fault,” she says, a soft confession.

“It’s my fault for not doing the washing up,” John mumbles, reaching out. His palm gently rubs her stomach. “Our little girl is gonna do fine. I’ll make sure of it.”

Mary smiles. “If I could move, I’d kiss you.”

Her husband sighs, mock heavily. “I’m always doing the hard work,” he mutters, propping himself up. His kiss is soft, gentle and a comfort. He falls asleep hugging her, and Mary finally closes her eyes.


	229. Cookery Skills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thenworld prompted: "molly finds sherlock cooking for real. with actual food he got from tesco (only supermarket i know from the uk, sorry)." I wrote this while listening to the Beauty and the Beast soundtrack. Probably why it's crammed with sentimentality.

“How’s Molly?”

Bringing up Molly Hooper around Sherlock Holmes, these days, is akin to pulling a tablecloth from a table. Sometimes nothing changes; everything remains the same and people call it an achievement. Other times, everything goes falling and tumbling.

Today, Sherlock clicks his tongue against his teeth. Remains where he is, standing by the flat window, watching out at his portion of London. “She’s fine.”

Mary cocks an eyebrow. “How do you know?”

He sighs heavily. Overly dramatic, preparing to change the subject. “Haven’t you got a husband to look after?”

“Have you spoken to Molly lately?” Mary tilts her head at the silence given to her. It’s akin to digging heels into sand, what she’s doing, but she has to try. For a long while, the silence remains. She gives a smile, small and sad. “You haven’t spoken a word to her.”

Sherlock stops watching over London. He stares at Mary, stares and stares. He looks well enough, for a man who hasn’t left the flat in four days.

“No.” He sighs, tucking his hands into his trouser pockets. “Not since the lab.”

(Mycroft had insisted on the drugs test, refused to help until it was done.) Mary replies, but not immediately. First she lowers her gaze, focusing in on the brown murky colour of her tea. It’s cold so she goes to the kitchen, pouring the tea down the sink until the dregs remain.

“You know… John and I… we’ve struggled.” She turns on the tap, running the mug under the hot water. “We still are, some days. Ella’s helping us.”

“That’s all very well, but Molly and I aren’t married, are we?” He’s irritated. Not surprising. John’s only recently told her Sherlock’s reaction when he’d announced that he and Mary were going to marriage counselling. Apparently he’d rolled his eyes and called it needless. He, the party who had been shot, had forgiven her, the party who had shot him. There was nothing else to it, according to the consulting detective. He hadn’t seemed to realise that there is reality beyond the reconciliation, consequences to choosing to stay with someone you love. (But, looking at him now, Mary wonders if he’s simply ignoring that truth. It’s not exactly the nicest of things to accept.)

She puts the mug to one side to drain. Turning to him, she folds her arms. Sucks in a breath.

“You know that isn’t what I’m saying, Sherlock.”

“Then get to your point, I’ve got better things to do.”

“Have you ever tried?”

“Tried what?”

She chooses to use a phrase Ella uses. “Mending bridges? Making things right?”

Sherlock turns, returning to his armchair. He closes his eyes, pressing his fingers to his mouth. Deathly quiet.

It takes him an hour. Mary is halfway through absent-mindedly cleaning the kitchen, halfway through a hum, when he speaks up.

“1995.” He opens his eyes, tilting his chin to look at Mary. “I caused a minor explosion in our accommodation. I bought her flowers to apologise.” A hint of a smile comes to the left corner of his mouth. Something knowing, possessing of a memory. “And a bottle of whiskey.”

She blinks. “You’ve known Molly for 20 years.”

“21. And a half. To be technical.”

“And that’s the last time you ever tried to make things right. 1995?”

“First time.” Looking away he stands and returns to the window. It’s his way of calming himself down, Mary realises. Sherlock holds his hands behind his back, breathing through his nose. “Been doing it ever since – pretty regularly, actually.”

“So why can’t you do it now?”

“I haven’t exactly made things easy,” he says, looking over his shoulder at her. “Some might say there’s too much water under the bridge.”

Mary fails to hide her smile. “Some might say that about me and John.”

“Did Ella?” he asks after a moment.

“Not her job.”

* * *

Pasta is on the hob, wisps of water vapour coming from boiling water. He’s holding a bunch of spring onions in one hand and his mobile phone in the other. Tesco bags surround him (the cashier at the till had looked at him strangely, as if she was surprised that Sherlock Holmes, famous consulting detective, knew what spring onions even were), dumped quickly on the worktops and shoved to the side to make room for chopping boards and recipe books. The books are an inadvertent collection, some coming from his mother and others coming from one client who’d insisted on calling him a twig and, when he’d solved the murder of his wife, further insisted on gifting him all of his wife’s old recipe books so he could build himself up.

He takes a breath, staring at the little box on the screen.

_Come to Baker Street. Please. – SH_

He hadn’t even had a chance to erase the ‘Please’.

There comes a knock on the door. Clearing his throat, abandoning the phone on the worktop, he takes a knife from the drawer and hurries to start chopping. The knock happens again. He finally remembers what he’s supposed to do.

“Come in.”

“I got your text.”

The blade of the knife just about misses his finger. He carries on.

“Did you?”

“And you’re cooking,” she says, a bit too brightly. He hears a bag being put down and a coat being hung over the back of a chair. She’s always been frighteningly domestic in this flat, around him. She doesn’t ask him to go to drinks like anyone with a crush would. She asks him to go for coffee. She doesn’t ask what he wants for Christmas. She just tries to surprise him. The realisation makes him panic a little bit, and chop faster. (He almost cuts his finger again.)

Approaching the worktop, him, she leans forward. He sees her in his peripheral vision, going through the Tesco bags with a light curiosity. Her hair is loosely curled. The after-effects of a party, probably. She’s always liked to have curls in her hair when going somewhere nice. She moves around him towards the hob. Gives the pasta a slight stir.

“Who are you cooking for?”

It’s such a stupid question that he loses patience. That’s his nature. “I don’t have a case, I texted you. Make the deduction.” He gathers up the chopped spring onions, puts them into a frying pan.

“Oh. Me then.” Her voice is sharp now, clipped. Frustration brought on by his own. He turns on her, ready to speak, but finds himself stopping. The curl in her hair is not an after-effect. Neither is her blouse (floral, with a bow) or her skirt. Or her shoes. She thinks him important, still thinks him important enough to make an effort.

He breathes. When he speaks, he speaks softly. “Yes, you.”

“I wasn’t going to come. I mean, I was. I was thinking about it. Thinking about it until I knocked on the door.”

“Mary suggested I ‘mend bridges’ with you,” he explains, though still soaking in her words. It doesn’t take a genius like him to know why she oscillated on her decision to come. Forgiveness, however much he might wish it, doesn’t mean ignorance. It’s not a box to be ticked so everyone can quickly move on. Mary made that clear.

Swallowing, he steps forward. He reaches up his hand, hesitating. With a breath he cups her cheek, sliding his fingers under her jaw, into her hair. Physically they’re two pieces of a jigsaw, fitting into place with ease. Maybe that’s why he’s always helping to make sure they stay apart. If he lets himself be attached to her for one moment, he knows he’ll never be able to let go.

She swallows, clenches her fists and stares up at him. Remembering herself. (It’s not just him who’s worked to keep them apart. With everything he’s done, it’s her too.) There’s a sheen of wetness in her eyes, the brown colour sharp and clear.

“You risked your life to solve a centuries-old case. You didn’t even – _tell_ me you weren’t…” She gives a short gasp. He tilts his head to kiss her forehead. He lets the gesture linger.

“It was easier to let you down.” They are cold words, spoken with a warmth only she will ever hear.

“It’s always easier to let me down.” She turns her head away from his hand, and he makes little protest, dropping his hand down to his side. “Isn’t it? You can’t, for one second, tell me the truth. Can you?”

The sting comes quick and fast. Every bone in his body tells him to run, to snap out a deduction and run.

“Molly, if I told you the truth – you wouldn’t…” She wouldn’t want him. He’s the most selfish person he knows, and he can’t bear the thought of a life without Molly Hooper.

The pathologist stares at him, eyes like steel. “I wouldn’t what?”

Her voice breaks, trembles, but the strength is there. (Always has been, always will be.) He cannot rely on it though. There are so many realisations to be made, when one tells the truth, that one truth which lies deep in your gut. He cannot rely on her strength. So he takes a deep breath, takes her face in his hands and kisses her.

She is surprised, but she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t push him away. The sensation, the feel, of their kiss remains long after they pull away.

“I’m scared, Molly. I’m so scared of losing everyone – most of all you.” He struggles to keep his voice calm. “But I have to be strong, and the only way I can be is if I get lost. In cases, in drugs. I have to be what I claim to be.”

“A high-functioning sociopath.”

Words that do not fit him, not when he’s here. They never fit around her. She always finds some way to make that shield crumble away. He closes his eyes, pressing his forehead to hers. He feels her fingers come around his neck. Her nails scratch as she rubs circles into his skin.

“You have to realise this – all of us – John – Mary – I… would die for you. Because you’re – you’re a genius.” She laughs a little at such an obvious word choice. Her fingers trail up into the nape of his neck. She clutches his curls tight. “You make the world make so much _sense_.”

“I don’t want you to die.” The confession comes out as a whisper. He feels like a child.

“Everyone dies.”

He digs deeper. Deeper and deeper. He did it for Emilia Ricoletti, he can do it for Molly. 

“I don’t want you to go.”

She leaves his truth alone for a painfully long moment. Then her hand drops from his hair and joins her other to hold him at his waist. He lets go of her, momentarily surprised, until the pieces click together. Wrapping his hands around her shoulders, he dares a smile.

“Sherlock.” She speaks his name as he kisses her temple, brushing his fingers through her hair.

“Mm?”

“The spring onions – they’re burning.”

He shrugs. “Let them.”

Tesco will have more, no doubt.


	230. Duet. (Orchestra AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written after I was inspired by thenworld's [post](http://thenworld.tumblr.com/post/139351633529/okay-before-i-leave-for-school-sherlolly-au) about an orchestra AU for BBC Sherlock. [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vzf5-WZyL1c&t=5m53s) is the piece I mention Molly and Sherlock playing in the drabble. (5:55 - 13:56)

“Did they know each other?” says Stamford, as he unlocks the case at his feet. Taking the instrument out, he inspects it, taking notes from the strings. Mary looks up. She stares at him for a second. Leant against one of the room's columns, with a coffee in hand, she looks amused.

“Who?”

Stamford nods to the violinist stood by the piano, studying sheets, his trademark red pen flying over the paper, making corrections. _Cut this section_ , _better to have this played allegro_. He can’t just play the masters. He has to beat them at their own game as well. At the piano, Molly plays a brief snatch of Liszt.

“Molly and Sherlock. They’re a little bit, er—” Mike pauses against the sounds of _La Campanella_ , searching for a word. ‘Tense’ isn’t exactly the best word to describe the pointed looks that have been shared between the two performers over the last week and a half. He clears his throat. “Well, there’s definitely a bit of a conflict there. Don’t you think?”

Mary shrugs, sipping her coffee. “That’s their way.”

“So – uh – did they know each other?” he repeats, discontent with the vague answer. Mary opens her mouth.

“Once.” 

The answer doesn’t come from Mary. Mike turns his head, sees Sherlock staring at him, red pen poised over paper. The piano stops abruptly, a slip of Molly’s fingers. With a soft apology, she resumes the piece. Sherlock turns his attention back to the papers. The pen continues moving. “That’s all you need to know.”

Sherlock’s eyes sweep towards Molly. He looks at her with pointed calm, a look which shifts when she holds his gaze, even as she continues to play. 

Mik can only watch the exchange with morbid curiosity.

“We’re divorced,” Molly says suddenly. It takes Mike a moment to recognise she’s speaking to him. She glances towards him. For a second she looks pained. She continues to play. 

Suddenly, Sherlock moves. The sheets abandoned, he moves to the seats. Other members of the orchestra grow quiet, watching the concertmaster snap open his case. He takes out the violin, inspecting it. He takes out his bow and turns on his heels. Tucking the violin under his chin, he draws the bow against the strings. Rough notes briefly underline the sound of the piano.

The music pauses. Molly’s fingers hovering against the keys. Her breathing slow. Her eyes flick up. They meet Sherlock’s. It’s like watching not a car crash exactly, but the aftermath. The bit where everyone’s wondering what happened, how, and who is to blame.

Molly starts. Every note savoured, the tune is soon known to everyone in the room. Mozart's _Violin Sonata No. 25 in F major_. Sherlock closes his eyes. Rests his bow against the strings, waiting.

He joins in with notes that are alternately quick and measured, sweet and sharp. Neither of them looks at each other. Over the next few minutes, the music comes in peak and troughs, calm and then all at once a cacophony. It should be chaos. Two performers playing off the cuff without sheets, without rehearsal.

Every note they play is perfect. Not a beat missed.

Sherlock moves around the rehearsal space as he plays, his bow hurrying across the strings. Molly leans into the piano, her fingers dancing. Her trademark, what she’s known and admired for, is how she paints a picture. Whatever the emotion, whatever the piece. The picture painted here, now, is oddly intimate. Mike knows everyone reacts to music differently. Where someone praises how one might play the violin, others prefer the robust, rounded notes of a cello. Mike knows he does. And the picture Molly Hooper creates now will be different for everyone in this room. Usually, he knows the picture immediately. It takes a while to capture the shades of this particular image. He knows its intimacy, knows it to be almost a stifling intimacy. Something overwhelming but desired as well. Kind of how he felt when he first had sex as a lad, going about town, naive but convinced he wasn't.

The pace of the piece changes, for Molly. Her hands flutter over the keys, expertly picking out notes. Sherlock follows soon after, hurrying his bow across the strings. His fingers dance over them too, pressing down and feeling the vibration. That's Sherlock's skill, that every up-and-coming violinist has tried to emulate. Whatever the note, you feel its vibration within you; your bloodstream, your heartbeat. It's a scientific thing. These two playing is science and art coming together. They are an orchestra, all by themselves.

Makes him feel a bit useless, really.

The full image still evades him. Sometimes, like now, he's seeing his wife, and now he's seeing their occasional arguments (few and far between, she's a good soul and he's astute enough to know what's upsetting her).

The piece finds its crescendo, Sherlock's bow flying over his strings, Molly's fingers flying over the keys in perfect time, and he sees nothing but the two of them playing.

That's the image, he realises, just as a smirk finds its way onto Sherlock’s face. With a flourish, Sherlock finishes. Molly gets to her feet, leaving the rehearsal hall. 

It isn’t hard to notice Sherlock’s smirk fading, eyes following her departing figure.

One of the horn section leans forward with a cocky grin and a low murmur. “Bet you a fiver they’ll be at it by the end of this week. Either that or kill each other.”

“Tenner,” Mike replies.


	231. Battle Lines. (Vampire AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eons ago, an anonymous sent an ask to Tumblr user sherlollysmooch, suggesting "Southern Belle vampire Molly meets Southern Gentleman Sherlock". Since then, I've been writing the following piece on and off because the premise intrigued me that much.
> 
> You can imagine Sherlock and Molly speaking in Southern accents for this, if you like - or you can pretend it's one of those charming old Hollywood movies where the protagonists spoke in American accents and the antagonists were all British.

The humidity made the air around her thick and immovable. Delicately flicking the fan in front of her features, small beads of sweat set against her brow. She smiled lightly at the man sat a small distance beside her, painfully mindful as he was of the social etiquette that he had been raised to observe.

“Miss Hooper, it was very kind of you to invite me here today.”

She smiled wider, skilfully avoiding his gaze and fluttering her fan a little more. “I was more than happy to do so – a woman can get awfully lonely in an estate such as this one.” Pink spotted her cheeks as she looked to him. “And, if I might be so bold as to say, you often prove to be wonderful company sir.”

“You’re too kind.” Her companion’s smile, though genuine, faltered and he sighed a little, touching at his collar. “I’m so sorry, but I’m terribly warm. Could I perhaps—”

She shook her head and reached up, clasping at the back of his hand, stilling him. Her pupils, dark with the hue of chocolate brown, widened with a sweet, silent request. “Not just yet. I am a lady – I can’t know all your secrets.”

He gave a lopsided smile, one which she returned with another, deeper, blush. Yet her fingers did not move from his hand; not until she had seen it gradually fall back into his lap. His lopsided smile remained as she reached forward to pick up her tea. She gently sipped, her companion still watching her with that same immovable smile.

“Well,” she said, as she carefully set her tea back where it once had been, “the sun is beginning to set – but this weather is still far too humid for my tastes.” She opened her parasol and stood, offering a delicate hand to the man still sat on the bench behind her. The gleam in her eyes danced. “Would you escort me?”

He rose to his feet without question. She gave a small nod in thanks, her fingers coming to hold his proffered arm. Together they walked through the gardens and towards the large plantation house ahead of them.

* * *

With patience her companion sat on her bed. It was similar to a child, how he waited, his hands tucked underneath his legs, his ankles crossed. Maids wordlessly undressed and washed her, their work methodical. Cold water poured against her warmed body, while fading orange daylight touched at the edges of her pale skin. She rose from her bath, neither her nor her companion ashamed by her nudity. One maid handed her a soft white robe and she loosely tied its ribbon at her waist’s side. She dismissed her maids with a wave of her hand. As the door to her bedchamber was locked, she, with a brush of her fingers against the long curls of her hair, approached her companion. Her gaze was appraising.

Of a well-built form with fresh-faced features, he was a gentleman with a courteous nature; always polite and ever mindful of his duties towards women. Intelligent too, for he was soon to be sent off to England to train as a lawyer. He had an investigative eye, possessive of a curious mind which would bode him well. Indeed—in spite of his years—he’d crossed paths with many figures. The majority had deigned him a gentleman with great promise. Others thought him impertinent, too investigative for his own good.

Molly’s fingers held the shirt collar of her companion for a moment, before she tucked her fingers down against his cravat. With one deft movement, she pulled it away from his neck. Her smile shifted. Something wicked shone in her eyes. (A natural reaction. Something she could not fight.) Her other hand reached up to curve around the edge of his jaw. Her nails, sharply shaped, stroked the hollow of his cheek. Her companion shifted backwards, allowing her to kneel on the bed in front of him, keeping her knee wedged closely between his thighs.

Her inner thighs ground slightly against his leg as she moved her hand up away from his collar, her moan a breath from her lips. She touched at his temple, drawing her fingertips across his sweat dampened forehead. She made a low noise at the back of her throat, smiled, and considered the man sat so patiently in front of her.

Quietly she bent her head and took his mouth in a kiss. It was a pity, a true pity, that, despite his goodness, she could never be predisposed to love such a man.  A deep groan slipped out of her companion’s mouth. She pulled back.

“None of that,” she ordered, suddenly holding his jaw and with desperation in her whispered words. “No. None of that.”

Her fingers returned to his shirt collar. This time, she fiddled with the buttons of his shirt, sliding open each one. With ease the expanse of his torso was hers. She zoned in on his neck, pressing her lips against the space between his neck and his shoulder. It was hardly the right rules of etiquette or courting, but there was no time for that. Calm, languid, she drew her arms around his shoulders. She stroked at the nape of his neck. At this part, she was often methodical; such calmness would always be a stark contrast to her birth. There, she had ripped and torn and hunted until the taste of blood glossed against her lips. All of that, she had done without knowing her own mind—without knowing what she was becoming.

Opening her mouth against the neck of her companion, her ear tuned to the beating of his veins, she bit down and let his blood flow.

* * *

After she had fed the procedure was simple. The body was cleaned, the blood erased and the wounds swathed in bandages before the dark sky of the night danced with the spark of flames. Locked up in the estate she had grown up in, she knew that she would never come under any scrutiny from the higher social classes. She was plain to them. Nothing more than another belle of the ball among so many others. Though considered to be witty and sweet-natured, her only defining trait remained to be the fact that she was still sadly unmarried. She became plainer still when her dowry became nothing but an old plantation house and fields that yielded little. (Gossip, about how she survived with so little income coming from her farm, spread every so often.)

The procedure after disposal was simple too. After all, feeds only came after stretches of hunger. Interminable stretches where months often blurred into years. She never counted how many years exactly. Her knowledge of how much time had passed came simply in the form of the staff. They would speak of his upcoming arrival in whispers, their words ones of excitement and brightness.

That was not a surprise.

For them, it was the arrival of a stranger. A stranger brought with them the prospect of something new being brought into their isolated fold.

They never questioned that he arrived late in the night. Nor did they question how he walked through the halls of the house with wordless familiarity. Influenced with ease, the butler opened the door for him and made no announcement; the maids too gave no hurried warning. She watched him enter the house from her window and held her head high. All part of the procedure.

Her bedchamber was a small thing, tucked away in the back of the palatial house, with the walls dark in colour and the heavy velvet curtains always thrown open. Early morning light burned yellow through the ancient glass of the high-arched window. She sat at her dressing table, running her brush through her tangled hair. As she brushed her eyes settled on the ring on her finger. It swirled opaque with colour, as it always had. She carefully adjusted her nightgown as she sat up straighter, sliding the thin cotton material over her bare shoulder.

The door opened and he stepped inside. He still wore his travelling cloak over a pale coat and dark waistcoat, his grey breeches perfectly pressed, his white cravat perfectly tied. Removing his tricorne hat, he bowed deeply to her.

“Miss Molly,” he greeted, straightening up. He reached back into his coat pocket. Between his fingers, there was tucked a letter, the red wax seal already broken. His eyes flashed as he walked forward, dropping the letter onto her lap. “An invitation for you.”

She gave a calm response, breathing softly through her nose. She settled herself by staring at a painting, hung on the north wall of her bedchamber. It was framed by gold, its subjects twisted and tangled up, faces contorted in pain. It had been his first gift to her.

“Sir, I am aware,” she replied. “I received it yesterday morning.”

“Etiquette demands you reply.” He tilted his head. His fingers wrapped tight around the top of his cane. Amusement came into his speech. “Or have you forgotten your lessons?”

“My mother, God rest her soul, made sure I did not,” Molly replied. She still did not touch the letter in her lap. She gave a small laugh. “I swear, she spent more time teaching me than she did doing anything else—”

The remainder of her words tumbled away into a choke, his hand at her throat in a blur. He forced her up to her feet with little effort, turning her head towards him with a touch of his finger. She found the sight of his black eyes and sunken veins greeting her.

An old trick.

It soon faded back to the genial smile. The hand at her throat remained.

Slowly, he leaned forward until his voice was nothing but a breath against her skin; a whisper in her ear. “You know my purpose here. That invitation was sent to you two weeks ago, Molly.” His grip tightened. “Imagine my disappointment when I am given word from your devoted staff that no reply has yet been made. That invitation took effort to get, my dear.”

“Do your duty,” he hissed, breaking a brief silence. “Remember your lessons, and do your damn duty.”

He let her go, thrusting her back onto her chair. Molly’s palm ran across the path of his fingers on her throat at the same time her gaze fell to the letter, now fallen to the ground. She bent down and unfolded the letter.

“Who is it?” she asked, sitting up. She scanned the cordial words that informed her of the ball to take place in less than a week. “That I am to meet with?”

“Sherlock Holmes. He’s become quite the nuisance. Do it quickly – dispose of the body in the usual manner.”

Something in her must’ve changed; the language of her body must have betrayed her, for he laughed.

“Did you not enjoy the last one I sent you? From all the gossip I’ve been hearing, you made him quite enamoured of you.”

“Shall I be honest?” she asked quietly.

He bowed his head. “Be my guest, Molly.”

“I never enjoy any of them.”

Moriarty, dark eyes glittering, stared at her. The corners of his mouth tilted up into something not quite a smile. “I’ll be back in a week. Try not to miss me.”

* * *

Her arrival came in the midst of a dance, so the announcement of her name became lost against the lively music. With relief she slipped into the crowd, another faceless belle wandering the fringes of the dance in the aim of finding a partner. Her eyes swept over lace and satin, over patterned fans and painted lips, over delicate whispers made in the midst of conversation. More women than men at this ball. All of them hungry to gain the attention of a suitor. There was desperation here—so much of it. Her immortality came at a price, she thought with fear. At least she was certain that she could survive.

“Might I inquire as to your name, sir?” a voice rose above the hubbub. Molly turned her head, glancing over the speaker. Her hair was blonde, ringlets gathered at the back of her head and artfully arranged down her shoulders and back. Her small hands were gloved with lace, while her green eyes stared up hopefully at a man of lean build with dark curled hair. The question clearly noted him as a new arrival to the conversation, while his garments labelled him immediately as an oddity. Balls were a place for extravagance, for patterns, for threads gilded silver or gold or bronze. He was dressed plainly in black, almost in the dour manner of a priest. In his hands, he carried no glass of wine and he seemed to hold little interest in the conversation being held by the three in front of him. Molly briefly wondered why someone would become involved with any conversation they knew would bore them.

The lone woman in the group, still looking at him, blinked, awaiting his answer.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” he said, voice smooth and rotund, something secure, assured, in the way he spoke. He bowed his head. “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am.”

He turned away from the group and disappeared into the crowd. Molly let out a breath, and continued forward. This was him. A nuisance. Molly saw immediately why he had been picked out. He carried much more than the curious nature most mortals carried. The clipped, decisive way he spoke, the determined gait indicated someone who was stubborn. Dangerously so. In her mind’s eye, she remembered the whispered words of her master. _Do your duty._

She found Holmes at the back of the crowd, far away from the dancing. He walked forward with purpose, coming to a stop at the French doors that led out to the gardens. He glanced over his shoulder at the ball, the dancing still lively, women being invited out onto the floor by enamoured men. For some, their admiration would be brief, swiftly transported onto the next woman. Others were luckier, the adoration they possessed evolving into love.

She hadn’t thought of love for centuries. Little point in reflecting upon something that however deep and long lasting, was fleeting compared to loneliness. That possessed an immortality of its own kind.

Molly shrank back. She turned away as his eyes swept over where she stood. She left it a moment before she looked back. One of the French doors was ajar, while he was nowhere to be seen. Molly slipped past revellers. Carefully she stepped through the open door.

A porch jutted out over the garden, two sets of stone steps fanning out of either side. She advanced forward. Creatures creaked and squawked in the evening’s air. The climate was heavy. It stuck to her pale skin.

Soundless, she leaned forward over the balcony’s edge. Her eyes focused on the moonlit grass, searching through white flowers made a dusky blue by the evening light. Nothing.

Terror hit her in a wave. He was hiding. He knew he was being hunted, and that she was his hunter. That, she knew, was always the most dangerous kind of prey.

Moriarty’s grip around her neck clung, as if she were nothing more than a dog grabbed by the scruff of its neck, forced into obedience. She swallowed back a breath as she picked up her skirts. Hurriedly, she made her way down the stone steps. A shadow of wind followed her, cutting against the hollow of her cheek. Her mind’s eye flashed with the image of a promising young man, staring at her in hypnotised adoration as she scraped her nail across his flesh and drew a nick of blood against his cheek. The blood had beaded, made itself a blemish on his features, and he’d not made a sound.

“Good evening.”

She turned towards the sound. Holmes was stood awkwardly underneath the balcony’s low parapet, his feet among the roses that lined the ground. His lopsided smile became bashful as he spoke.

“Forgive my appearance,” he said, stepping forward and brushing himself down, “but I was led to believe I was being followed.”

Molly hesitated to speak, but broke into a smile. “Why ever so?”

“I doubt I could explain and still seem reasonable,” he said, with a quirk of amusement.

“I found you standing among flowers sir. I think the time for reasonable behaviour has passed,” she said, giving an easy smile. It was second nature to wear the mask of playful girl, eager to tease and play with others.

He gave a soft laugh, glancing down at his muddied shoes. “That’s quite true. If I might be permitted to start again?”

“It’d be my pleasure sir.” Widening her smile, she offered out her hand. “I highly believe in second impressions.”  

“By chance, I do too.” He bent down, sliding his palm into hers. He lowered his head, pressed his lips to her fingers. His eyes flicked up to meet her. Their colour was a dazzling silvery-blue against the dark close evening. His voice dropped to a murmur. “Sherlock Holmes, ma’am. At your service. May I have the pleasure of your name?”

She dropped into a brief curtsey, lowering her head in a single nod. Their hands remained joined together, his fingers curving slightly around hers. His hold on her was light. If she could, she could take him here. Leave him to be discovered, a new horror to gossip about at the next festivity.

“Molly Hooper, sir.” A brief temptation. Standing up, she withdrew her hand from his and gently fanned herself. “Might I ask what brings you to our party tonight? I don’t recall having you seen you here before.”

“Business, sadly, brings me here. But I was invited here, and decided to indulge. I’m often told I don’t do so.” His mouth twitched upwards.

Molly demurred with a bashful look. “I confess, I know little about the business of men. I find that most women are ignorant of their men’s business dealings.”

He circled around her until he was stood to her left, holding his hands behind his back. Looking to her, he raised an eyebrow. “Are you so dismissive of your own sex?”

“Forgive me,” Molly said as she turned to face him, “I speak as I see.”

“I doubt that to be true.” His eyes hardened suddenly. Molly paused.

“Pardon, sir?”

He inched forward. “Forgive me, sincerely, for any impertinence my remarks may cause, but Miss Hooper, you strike me as a woman who knows far more than she lets on. You are however, hopeless at tailing someone. I’d gather your targets often come to you, don’t they? Rather than you go to them.”

“Do not flatter yourself, sir. I knew you were hiding.” She stepped forward, staring up at him. “You made it easy.”

He held her gaze. His full lips thinned as he stared. Anger seared blue in his eyes. She swallowed, Moriarty’s grip still prevalent in her head, but she remained firm. She had her orders. Like the best of soldiers, she would complete them.

A noise, a throwing open of the doors above them, had Molly staring upwards at the balcony. Female revellers, giggling among themselves, the scent of champagne and perfume obscuring the smell of their blood, had exited the party.

Molly listened as they complained of the heat and discussed the menfolk, comparing the charming members of the party to some of the more gruesome attendants. They approached closer to the parapet until Molly could see them, skin flushed pink from exertion and the skirts of their dresses swaying as they moved and talked. One of them would simply have to look straight down to see her.

She felt a hand at her waist, urging her back underneath the parapet. Holmes pulled her close to his chest. When she looked to him, he pressed a finger to his lips. Molly gave a nod and turned her head upwards. She kept her eyes on the balcony’s edge, listening to the eager conversation of the young ladies. They retired back into the party after a short while.

In the silence she breathed. Holmes’ hand left her waist. She remained where she was. Pressed close to his chest, she’d felt something tucked into his coat. Molly slowly turned to face him. The anger in his eyes faded to curiosity. Fury blazed when he saw her fingers slide underneath the lapel of his coat. His hand flew towards her wrist, gripping it tight. Her brown eyes held his.

It had been a long while since she had met a fellow soldier. Gentlemen with soft eyes and slow reactions had made her rusty.

She withdrew her hand. His fingers freed her wrist.

“You made it easy,” she repeated, her tone softer than before. As if she didn’t believe her own conviction. The softness in her voice hardened. “And you will tell me everything you know of James Moriarty.”

“I ask for one thing in return.” They were still hidden underneath the balcony. Their mouths close, their breaths tangling, finally mingling together. The stories would call it a lover’s embrace. Holmes’ hand slid into his jacket. He brought out a stake, short in length, tapered to a sharp point. She wasn’t surprised at her relief when he spoke again. “Take me to him.”

* * *

Her relief gave way to anxiety, to a tightened chest and a shiver of fear. She shook her head and stepped back, glancing towards the parapet. Still no-one there.

“I can’t, sir. He—” The words stuck in her throat. A spell he’d thought to put on her centuries ago, in the years when she would tell her creation to anyone who would listen, desperate to escape her fate. A bribed witch had given her the power to say his name but stripped away the ability to tell her story. Holmes slipped the stake back into his jacket pocket.

“Created you. That does present a problem. Pity.”

For a moment there was neither anger nor curiosity when he looked to her. There was a sliver of disappointment. If he felt anything else for her, she couldn’t tell. To him she represented nothing more than a wasted chance.

“You’re a vampire,” she said into their silence. She gave a small shrug of her shoulders when he peered at her. “We know our own kind, Mr Holmes. And yet you hunt us. Why?”

“I only hunt one, Miss Hooper. Much like you.” He stepped forward. The kiss he gave to her hand was light. “The rest I’ll leave to fend for themselves. Good evening to you.”

She caught him as he left, holding his upper arm. She inched forward, lowering her head. She did not see him bend his head, but she felt his breath cool on her neck. For a moment they remained there.

There were so many things she could say, as one soldier speaking to another. She wondered for a moment if this would ever happen again. Two killers on opposing sides.

“May we meet again, Mr Holmes.”

“I look forward to the occasion, Miss Hooper.”


	232. Coming Home to You. (Potter!lock, Parent!lock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "Potterlock with Parentlock combined".
> 
> I haven't done Potterlock in ages, which will show. I'm rusty. Set around the time of the First Wizarding War.

Soap creates bubbles on her skin, loops of water and harmless chemicals wrapping themselves around her fingertips. The water sloshes over cutlery, forks, and knives. One of Fiona’s plastic bottles gets caught up in it all. It slips, tumbles, out of Molly’s fingers, the light weight sudden and odd, but it still creates a splash. “Sod it,” Molly murmurs, shaking residue of bubbles from her hands, wiping them on a cloth. She daubs at the spots soaking into her shirt. The wetness spreads, the spots grow in size. Molly folds the cloth over. Her damp hands are cold in the air of the kitchen, all charming stone, the cottage burrowed away in countryside, surrounded by neighbours who smile, unaware of what’s happening in the corner of their eyes, the danger they are always in. She wipes harder against her shirt. Still no use – no use at all – until she finally pulls the damn thing off and shoves it in the washing machine, slamming buttons and running her hands through her hair, collapsing onto the floor.

Her lungs heave, tighten and stretch until she thinks she’s broken them. Like she can’t breathe again. She weeps, in her bra and jeans, she weeps. It is so unfair – oh God, unfair isn’t the word, ‘ _unfair_ ’ is too fair to the bastard who’s caused this.

Screaming pulls her back to her reality. It’s the innocent kind of scream, a scream given when a child knows someone is in trouble. She’s only three months, born in an antique bed by a Muggle doctor who didn’t know what sort of world he was bringing her into, but she knows already the shadow that hangs. Molly just about pulls herself to her feet, the wood of the stairs creaking underneath her.

“I’m here,” she says, running into a half-finished nursery, glancing over pictures yet to be hung, walls still to be painted. She picks up her daughter and kisses her cheek, her temple, her forehead. “I’m here, I’m here. Sssh. Hush. It’s okay.”

That’s a lie she has to tell, because – well. How do you tell a three month old that the world she’s been born into stopped existing when she was in her mother’s belly? That she isn’t going to grow old among a world of spells and curiosity, but a world darkened by marks in the sky and terror in a promise.

Fiona settles after a few minutes. When she’s heard her mother’s heartbeat, slow and steady, had her back stroked and kisses pressed to her temple. Molly wipes away the tears on her cheeks as she holds her baby girl. They come back as soon as she’s wandering down the creaky stairs, her hand on the single handrail. She wonders how long it will be she’ll have to carry Fiona up and down these steps; how long it’ll be before she can trust her own daughter.

She rifles through the laundry basket, through clothes that still need washing. She throws on an old cardigan, something dark with sleeves that cover her palms and don’t cover her bra. The washing machine beats, the drum rolling over and over, its sound thrumming lowly in the kitchen.

Molly leans over the sink to reach the blind. She happens, just happens, to glance out over the overgrown garden with weeds instead of flowers and grass too long to be cut. Beyond that, a country gate and a running brook. Mountains just beyond that, capped with winter snow. A sky inky black, stars invisible and the moon pale and grey. Snowflakes flutter, thick, a marble of white and grey, past the window.

A figure walks down the path, coat collar turned up to avoid the weather. Hair fluttering against the wind. It’s only when she catches sight of a scarf that she runs to the front door and throws it open. The cold hits her chest, common sense reminding her of her ‘impropriety’ but screw impropriety. She bends down, grabs her walking boots. Doesn’t bother with the laces – she just tucks them in the sides and hopes they’ll hold. The figure is continuing down the path. Molly can feel him watching her. She runs through grass which catches at her waist, wipes her eyelashes free of snowflakes because she’s not missing one second of this, runs until her lungs are tight again. They let go with sudden relief as she throws her arms around his shoulders, every breath she takes heavy, sobs which are muffled when he hugs her back so tightly she wants to beg him never to let go.

They stay there for a minute and two more, swaying, rocking, whispering private words to each other. But her anger rises and her fists clench against his chest. He doesn’t react. Perhaps he prepared for this stage.

“I thought you were dead,” she bites out. “I thought Fiona was without a father. I don’t _care_ what the Ministry ordered,” she snaps as he opens his mouth. “You’re so damn lucky she’s only three months. What if she was two? Eight? Old enough to—”

She bites her tongue on the last word. They’re in a war, and she doesn’t want to imagine the day her daughter’s eyes realise the fact.

He stares back at her, hopeless and sheepish.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Molly.” He takes her hand, rubbing his cold palm over her frozen knuckles. His thumb brushes over and settles on her wedding ring. “I’m so sorry.”

No promise to stay. No promise not to return to constantly running from a death which comes with one word. (But then, she thinks bitterly, what is she doing here if not that? Mary is her secret keeper after all; the one Molly has allowed to hold her family’s life in her hands.)

She slips her hand into his. Kisses his temple like she would kiss Fiona, only she has to reach up on her tiptoes to do so. She wobbles for a second, unused to the sensation.

“How long?”

“I don’t know. Let’s go inside.”

Molly’s anger fades with a shiver. There’s no point in it. Not in a war. Not now.


	233. The Old and the New. (Rey/Jessika Pava, Star Wars)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "ship prompt: it's date night and person A and person B decide to go stargazing in a park. person A is a bit tipsy from the wine at dinner earlier in the evening. person B explains feelings to person A, thinking they won't remember anything. little does person B know, person A understood every word and feels the same." I went with Rey/Jessika Pava from Star Wars: TFA, because lady pilots loving other lady pilots? Sign me up!

“Jessika.”

It’s one hell of a risk, but she does it anyway—presses her lips to Rey’s, breathing in the scents of battles fought and harsh desert winds on her skin. It’s brief and clumsy, the kiss, a lopsided and hesitant moving of mouths. Jessika Pava is blushing more than she’s ever blushed before. She lingers as she pulls away.

She bites her bottom lip, keeping her eyes on Rey’s and her hand gently holding the base of Rey’s jaw (even if she cannot remember how it got there). 

“You said my first name,” Jessika explains.

Rey calls everyone by their surnames, apart from her friend Finn and the late Han Solo. (Jessika suddenly remembers being a few years younger and hearing Poe arguing with Han over whether traversing the Kessel Run in twelve parsecs was really possible, and there’s a brief, deep pang somewhere in her chest—General Solo was the grumpy grandfather of D’Qar, stomping and glaring, and though she only met him a handful of times, she misses him.) Even the villain of their story, Kylo Ren, is merely ‘Ren’ to Rey, ex-scavenger, soon-to-be Jedi.

Her eyes drop down Rey’s features, finding the thin braid hidden among her loose curls that rests against her collarbone. Jedi. That word crosses Jessika’s mind like a lightning bolt. She lets her hand drop, stops biting her lip. She doesn’t know that much about the Jedi, just bits and pieces from bedtime stories told to her as a kid. The one thing, though, that always stood out for her, from all those myths and legends about the bravery of Luke Skywalker and the Jedi—the lack of emotional attachments. The devotion completely to the Force and it’s teachings. The Jedi are forbidden to love or be loved. Any kind of attachment is a crime. She jumps to her feet.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that – I mean, I did, I just should’ve asked permission or something first. I like you, Rey.” She blurts it out. Her stomach feels like an X-wing spinning out of control, so short sentences are more achievable than long ones. “And you’re training to become a Jedi. And because we’re all kind of – you know – from all the alcohol…” (Celebration of another battle won, after way too many losses.) “It’s unlikely you’ll remember any of this. Thank God. Um, yeah. I’ll see you around.”

Poe Dameron flirts outrageously and shamelessly with everyone in the Resistance. The only one he hasn’t flirted with is General Organa, because not even Black Leader is brave enough to face the consequences of that joke. Jessika, hurrying away from Rey to go and cringe in her quarters, wishes she was Poe Dameron.

* * *

One of the engines is giving her trouble. The source lies in the coolant feeds, and she’s half inside the belly of her half-deconstructed X-wing (engine repairs are always murder, especially when it’s a job like this, and Jessika considers herself lucky that her squadron hasn’t been called up) when she realises she’s got the wrong kriffing wrench. She sighs, and glances down. She sees feet passing her ship.

“Hey!” she calls out. Her words are slightly muffled as a result of her position, but the feet stop. She stretches out a hand. “There’s a wrench lying by my feet – I think. It’s kinda small. Could you pass it? I need to fix this damn coolant feed. Otherwise I’m pretty screwed for any mission.”

She beckons for the wrench. It’s pressed into her palm with a feel that somehow reminds her of a night that is three weeks old and still burning in the back of her head. Jessika pauses, swallowing. She stares up into the belly of her X-wing.

“Thanks,” she says, holding the wrench tight.

“What kind of engine is it?” Rey asks with light innocence.

“Engines,” Jessika says automatically, wriggling out from her place in the X-wing. “Incom-FreiTek, 5L5 fusial thrust. Standard on this kind of model.” Rey’s dark brown eyes and slight, knowing smile meet her and her throat goes dry.

“I haven’t encountered that engine before,” Rey admits. She tilts her head. Her thin braid moves with her, trailing against the length of her neck.

“It ain’t the best,” Jessika replies. She gestures towards her X-wing. “I’ll give you a tour, maybe? When I’ve repaired it.”

Rey takes a step forward, the space between her eyebrows creased with curiosity and her lips parted into a bigger smile. “Why can’t you show me now? I like repairing stuff.”

It makes a difference from scavenging, Jessika supposes. She nods.

“Okay.”

She turns away, but Rey taps her on the shoulder. 

Jessika’s barely got a polite question out of her mouth before Rey’s caught her words in a much less clumsy, much sweeter kiss. She smiles as their noses brush together.

“Master Skywalker doesn’t believe in the old Jedi ways,” she said softly. “And I like you too.”


	234. Hold On.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kelseyrare asked: "Things you said while you held me in your arms". Post HLV, post TAB short fic.

“I’m sorry I can’t be better.” It was a whispered thing into the dim dark, touching every part of her, even though he was stood in her bedroom doorway, half-lit by passing headlights of cars and lorries. Her flat was on a main road, but there was a skylight directly above her bed from which she could watch the stars and the sunrise – if she ever woke early enough.

She lay on her bed, hands folded over her waist and chewing her bottom lip. She twisted her head to find his silhouette, and that was when he’d spoken.

“I’m sorry I can’t be that – perfect person.” He risked a step forward. Stopped when a floorboard creaked underneath him. His silhouette looked at her. She rolled onto her side, turning away from him.

“When did I ever say I wanted you to be?”

“Every – everyone else does.”

“Since when do you care about everyone else,” she muttered into her pillow, crossing her arms over her chest, drawing her legs up until she was a tight ball.

“I don’t know.”

She laughed. A single blasting laugh. Sherlock shuffled his feet, took another step forward. Sat on the bed. She giggled. His low chuckle cut through, tangling with the sound of hers. She relaxed as she felt his arms hold her. (Still wearing that bloody Belstaff and scarf, just as he had when he’d left with a government agent in tow. He trembled as he held her, as they laughed together, and she didn’t stop laughing, because this was a moment, she knew, had to be savoured.)

When the laughter faded, she took his hand and wrapped his fingers, one by one, into a fist. She felt him breathe as she pressed a lingering kiss to his knuckle.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” she said, holding his hand to her chest and closing her eyes, breathing as softly as she dared, “just catch him.”


	235. Similar Creatures. (Rey/Kylo Ren, Vampire!AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a prompt fill.

She sees Han Solo, a forest. Evening light. Glitches. Flickers. Flashes of brown hair on Han’s head, a dark-eyed woman running beside him. They come to a halt at the same time. Fear in both their faces. A single name called. _Ben!_

A small boy suddenly, eyes dark like the woman’s and the light fading. Blood at his neck. Thin fingers pressed to a wound. _Dad…_

“You.” She breathes the word with the trace of a snarl.

A young man now, training. Beaten for every wrong step he takes. A skull, burned, mangled with the metal of a helmet. For every beating, the skull is there.

“You’re afraid.” A snarl comes to her. “That you’ll never be as strong as Darth Vader!”

He wrenches away from her. The connection is broken, the force between them lost. That’s not what stops her in her tracks. Not what makes her feel desperately cold, as if she’s back on Jakku, struggling to get through a single night. His eyes are a hollow black. Just for a split second.

His breath shakes. He turns away from her.

* * *

On the black days, as Rey knows them to be, she wonders if her affliction was the reason why she was left. On a planet of yellow, destined to a dry throat, her skin prickling where she didn’t cover it. (She remained in the belly of machines all day, scavenging until there was nothing, waiting for soft desert winds to come. A little relief was preferable to nothing.)

On the black days, she watched the moon and wondered how long she would live and if all of it would be on Jakku. On the black days, she dreamt of islands and threw desperate words out into the dark: _Come back, please._ The words festered in her head, occasionally bleeding out of her lips as fragile whispers. _I’ve learned who I am. I can control it. I’ll be good._

On the better days, she chews on synthetic bread and wonders when they’ll come. On the better days, she is patient, and she waits.

She wasn’t allowed to wonder or wait anymore when she met the droid. BB-8, it called itself. A funny droid which she didn’t want, but was so pathetic, she took in anyway.

Plutt’s greed shone through when he noticed the droid tailing in after her.

He toyed with her for a while, telling her the five pieces she got, she worked for, are worth one half portion. His words soon turned to the droid.

“What about him?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“I’ll pay for him,” Unkar replied. Packets dumped on the counter, more packets than she’s seen in her life. “60 portions.”

In the mass before her, she saw vials of red liquid, diluted to a pale colour. If she were to draw the packets closer, she would’ve smelt the metallic scent that Niima Outpost reeks of. (Up until she was 10, Unkar sent people to test her, to wave those same vials under her nose until she could prove her control. He still makes her park all the way out of the outpost’s boundaries.)

She hugged the packets close to her immediately, her eyes locked on pale red liquid.

Yet—she’d never sold something alive before. The realisation is like a sting in her gut. She’d always sold parts to Unkar, dead things that made no sounds, that didn’t follow her wherever she goes. That didn’t beep and flash, telling her of their adventures with their wonderful master. The droid needed her.

“Actually… the droid’s not for sale.”

* * *

Payment for her decision came in the form of men of Unkar finding her in the marketplace. She felled them with ease, approaching the last with intent to flash her teeth as a message to Unkar, a reminder of who and what she is.

When she was younger, that was her bargaining chip. One portion wasn’t enough for an eleven year old, constantly living with a rumbling belly and a dry tongue. Though barely able to see past the high counter, she would look up and wait until Plutt leaned over, his sneer on his lips. The sneer disappeared when she let her features sink back, let her teeth change. Her youth fuelled his fear too. Who knew what a youngling like her could do, with a power like the one she’d either been given or born with? The one quarter portion got swiftly changed to one full portion, pale red powder in the sealed packet.

Unkar had got used to it long ago. His men hadn’t. Bleary when they rose, they scurried when her features sank back.

She’d once seen herself in a reflection as a child, new to Jakku and the itch in her skin. A scavenger had passed close to her AT-AT, stinking of oil and sweat, but the metallic stench of their human blood overwhelmed it. The reflection she’d found, in a piece of metal she’d so proudly caught that day, was blurred. Hollow black was where her eyes were, sharp teeth protruded from her mouth, her skin turning a sick yellow. Morbid fascination had brought her closer to the reflection. Details came in the form of seeing veins crawling, alive, under her eyes and down her cheeks. With a scream, she’d turned away from the reflection and wept.

It’s again through the droid that she met more adventure: a Resistance fighter. A trace of his blood’s scent against her nose, her ears filled by the sounds of his hammering heart as he told her of a map that led to Luke Skywalker. Not a myth, not a story whispered into a child’s ear (she had witnessed that once, in the marketplace, and her heart had ached just to be touched like that, to be hugged and wanted). But neither of them were allowed to linger. Stormtroopers came, chasing them, shooting at them, explosions throwing them forward. The Resistance fighter kept taking her hand but she isn’t a child, she knows how to look after herself—it was only when he asked her, waking in the confused quiet after the explosion, if she was okay that she realised. He wasn’t keeping her here. He was trying to lead her away from the danger. He was looking after her.

For a moment, Rey no longer felt like a monster.

So she offered out her hand.

It was only when Jakku was behind them that she learned his name.

“Finn. What’s yours?”

She pressed her fingers into her palm. She had left Jakku and its burning heat. The itch which had accompanied her all her life, the tingle on her skin, was gone. His heart was thrumming with a rush of something, of excitement. His blood was close, the one thing she needed but had always been denied. A dark thought overwhelmed her. This fighter, Finn, didn’t know of it. Of her affliction. He thought she was human. (Throughout their adventure, he continues to.)

“I’m Rey.” She’d never attacked someone in her life. All she had was a trick and a memory of a reflection.

She made the decision to keep running.

That decision has landed her here. A captive of a monster.

Of someone just like her.

* * *

Kylo lets out a breath when he’s safe inside the walls of his chambers. It feels like a first breath of a child, something heavy that if he isn’t careful will rip at his chest. Master Snoke had sensed it. Come so close to discovery. For the first time, Kylo had felt relief for Hux’s obnoxious sneer.

“Bring her to me,” Snoke had ordered, an instruction which rings in his head even now. It is nothing to the memory of her, however. His fingers twitch, his body trembling. This force battling against his, a sharp figure surging forward, silver and new, invading his thoughts. He sees her face in his mind’s eye, her eyes flashing with markers of her monstrosity. Their _shared_ monstrosity.

He ends up retching into a garbage can.

Snoke had called him the only one. As he’d laid in the bed, unconscious but feeling every touch of his mother’s fingers stroking softly on his palm, her words to him gentle, Snoke had whispered to him. It was not something to be cured as his father gruffly claimed. It was a gift. His wounds were a blessing, given to them by the Force. _The Force has something in mind for you_.

He splashes water against his face.

This cannot be. There cannot be another.

His breaths, distorted underneath the casing of his helmet, grow even as he heads out of his chambers. Fists clenching, he turns on his heels.

The room is empty. The restraints open. Only her scent is left behind, traces of fear and adrenaline in the air. The Force thrums through his rage.

“No… no… _No!_ ” He swings out with his lightsaber. It connects with the chair, the restraints, sparks and heat its destruction.

“GUARDS!” He screams, guttaral, over the sounds of his rage.

There will not be another.

His anger echoes down the corridors. He’s sure Hux, wherever he is, can hear it.

He will find her, Kylo tells himself. He slices further into the chair. More sparks, more heat.

He will _train_ her.

She will be his apprentice.

The chair lies in ash and broken pieces at his feet.

There will never be another.

They will be the only ones. They will be the only monsters.


	236. Never Happened Before. (The Lake House AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "things you said under the stars and in the grass, sherlolly?" I went with an AU of The Lake House.

**2010**

Her bag slams against her hip. Up the stairs. Right side window. Left side floorboard underneath. Dumping her bag, her keys, her coat, she feels the ground with her foot. Left side floorboard creaks and bends under her weight. Stepping back, crouching, she prises open the loose floorboard. She gasps. Grins. She reaches inside, prising open the dusty, aged pages of the book.

Looped handwriting spells out hurried words, written on white paper tucked between the yellow pages. She plucks it out, settling into the crinkled old leather seat, kicking off her shoes. Her socks slip and slide against the leather. She tucks her legs underneath her bum, tugging her cardigan closer around her chest.

_If only I had the patience of Gabriel._

His laborious signature, different with every single letter, is at the bottom.

“Then you’d have the patience of a saint,” Molly murmurs. With a lick of a smile, she raises her head, twisting her body, finding the bookshelf. Scanning it, feeling the weight of the book, her smile changes into a grin.

* * *

**2008**

Fairy lights line a high bookshelf which groans with the latest bestsellers that still have pristine spines. Christmas music plays dimly in the conservatory (the real reason for his being here, not this ‘holiday cheer’ society adores to invest itself in) and guests, drunk on the season and the free alcohol, sing haplessly along with hapless songs. He’s stuck with water and three patches on his arm. The reason for the increased cheer falls thickly past the window, a flurry that won’t settle but melt into the grass, leaving frost on the grass and a chill in the air.

He gulps back the last of the bland drink, wishing for something more flavoursome, something that would make this year fall into white noise so he wouldn’t have the responsibility of thinking anymore—he bumps into Victor on his way to the coat room (bedroom, on an ordinary day, and he hopes there’s no-one indulging in the cliché).

“Sherlock, wait,” Victor says hurriedly, grasping his arm and tugging him back. For the first time, Victor looks sheepish, repentant. That he’s in the right doesn’t make Sherlock feel any better. Victor lets him go. “I’m – I’m sorry, I was an idiot. I know you don’t like parties anyway, and with things being the way they are… I thought it would help.”

He pushes past, voice thick. “You don’t have to apologise.”

It takes him a moment to fetch his coat, the welcome home present Mummy thought appropriate. Throwing it onto his shoulders, he shuts the front door onto the porch. Sheltered from the snow, large flakes of frozen rain crystallised into an infinite number of unique shapes, the cold wind bites at his cheek. Its crispness floods his lungs. He flips his collar up.

“Sherlock.” He whirls round. His stomach flips up and his heart drops. Her brown eyes twinkle with a permanent hope. (The same hope that floods every word she will write in two years time, every secret ambition she will confess.) She frowns, lightly swinging against the porch chair. “That’s your name, isn’t it? Sorry if I’ve got it wrong. We only met briefly.”

“My name’s William,” he admits, not looking at her. Everything about tonight, whatever happens, it is all already a memory for her. One, he hopes beyond all hope, she forgets. So one little truth can’t count. He closes his eyes, steadying himself. “I go by Sherlock,” he explains, sighing. His breath follows his words in a soft white grey cloud.

“Oh. Well, I’m Margaret – but everyone calls me Molly. Even my own mother.” Not moving from her spot, she sticks out a hand. Sherlock nods in return.

“Hello Molly,” he says, trying out the words on his tongue. They taste too sweet on his tongue, two syllables that fit a too convenient rhythm. Molly Hooper’s hand drops to her side. She shrugs a shoulder.

“Suit yourself. Are you a friend of Meena’s or Victor’s?”

Someone in the conservatory screams with laughter. It sounds mean, high and cruel. Another screeches the words to another Christmas song. “Victor’s,” he answers. “Since university. He was my only friend.”

“Me and Meena have known each other since we were little.” She makes no mention of his loneliness. “Do you want to sit down? You look freezing.”

“You’re not even wearing a jacket,” is his retort, dumbly spoken as he makes the mistake of looking at her. He’s only seen her once before. On his laptop screen, when he’d been desperate for answers. He’d searched her name and found social media accounts and a blurred photograph of an award she had picked up once upon a time, in 2007. He’d stared at that blurred photograph, tried to make out the engraving through the poor lighting. (Aching to be there, to congratulate her, he’d shut the laptop and left it alone for three days.)

“I’ll be fine,” she says brightly, chomping on her chattering teeth.

A misguided sense of chivalry, an even more misguided thought of hope for something impossible, has him shrugging off his coat and roughly handing it to her. She narrows her eyes in return, quirks an eyebrow.

“Um. Thanks. Oh, that’s nice,” she sighs under her breath, sliding her slender arms through the lined wool. It drowns her.

She’s smaller than he’d thought. Photos never give a good indication of someone’s height. He’d estimated average height but she’s only a little over five feet. Two inches over, perhaps. His eyes trace over the red pumps she wears, dotted with what look suspiciously like miniature Santa cartoons. She must’ve been wearing heels in the photographs.

Her body is as toned as he’d expected, for someone who works with dead bodies. Or who wants to work with dead bodies. Two years is an all too short period, and yet somehow also an all too long one.

“What do you do then? I’m just about to start my job.”

“What job is that?” he asks, guilty that he knows her answer.

“Specialist registrar at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. I, uh, deal with dead bodies.” She laughs, fiddling with her fingers, picking at her nails. When she laughs, the space between her eyebrows crinkles. Lines appear at the edges of her eyes. Details that he has when he laughs, that anyone has when they laugh. That doesn’t stop them being beautiful.

“Icky I know,” Molly says, continuing speaking against his silence. “Cutting open dead people and seeing what’s inside – sorry. If you’ve had anything to eat—”

“I haven’t. The canapes didn’t appeal.”

“No.”

“They looked like something you might have dug up.”

She laughs again, harder, her shoulders shaking. His coat slips off one shoulder, exposing the line of her dress. It’s a thin strap that holds it up, a tight black dress with a silver lining above the bust. Her lipstick is crimson red. She has a silver Christmas bow tucked against laboriously curled hair. He half-wonders who she’s trying to impress tonight, mostly wishing it was him.

“Harsh,” she says through her fading giggles, pulling the coat back onto her shoulder. “But kind of true. Meena’s not the best cook.”

“Does it take much effort to put something from the supermarket in the microwave?”

“Okay, that is genuinely harsh.”

“Not at all,” he responds. “There’s an Iceland box shoved in the bin in the kitchen.” It’s so easy to communicate with her, even though she’s two years ahead and this Molly, this Molly with the most beautiful laughter lines he’s seen and curled hair, is just an echo. A foundation that will be built on, developed, made bigger and stronger. He wants to stay here, in this moment, with this Molly until his Molly comes wandering through the clearing, letters in hand and the smile he dreams of.

He is a selfish human being, with selfish dreams.

The snow is fading.

The music is slowing.

“You never answered my question. What do you do?” she repeats.

“Nothing. I barely know what I want to do with my life.” That’s one truth he hasn’t told her yet. He’s been so lost in finding out more about her, about her life. And here sits a Molly asking the questions he hasn’t allowed yet.

“Hm. Do you have any skills?”

“One.”

She fixes him with a steady look. She seems adult all of a sudden, a fully grown adult woman. She brushes her hair out of her eyes and tucks the back of her hand under her chin, her elbow settling against her knee. “Show me.”

He flicks his eyes over her. “You don’t dress like this usually. In fact, you hate dressing up like this. You’ve only made an effort as a favour. Probably Meena, considering the affection with which you speak about her. You live alone.” (Not a cheat, an observation of so many others he has stored away about this woman present and not.) “You’ve been in recent contact with a cat, owing to the hairs on your skirt, but not consistent contact, so I would assume you have a friend who has one and is fond of you. Or you’re fond of it. Obviously you would be, otherwise you wouldn’t let it touch you. Victor, I know, is allergic, so it’s obviously not Meena. You wear a wedding ring on your right finger, but it’s too big. Big enough to suit a male hand – so it’s a tribute to a male relative.”

“My dad,” she says cheerily, though the tone is strained (he immediately wants to confess everything to her, to not make her happy or sad but just to give the knowledge she’s missing, that she’s going to wait two years for). She circles the ring around her finger. “I told my mum to take it when he died, but she – she wouldn’t. So she gave it to me. They were devoted to each other, my mum and dad. When he died, she…”

She swallows, dropping her hands towards the seat. Her palms sink into the cushioning; she grips the seat’s underbelly as she still gently swings. Her knuckles turn white. She swallows, breaths. He notices mumbled numbers coming from her lips.

When she reaches 10, she grins up at him. The friendliness returned, the line firmly drawn.

“Have you got anyone?”

“You.”

“Pardon?”

“Sorry, no—” he shakes his head, bites his bottom lip, “Brain ran ahead of me. No, I haven’t got anyone. Well. The potential of one. You?”

She scoffs, half-derisive, half-amused, as she stares beyond the porch roof, the fading snow into the night. The evening star glows, but that’s the only star. The moon is hidden by the overcast clouds. “You could just say friends with benefits, it’s easier. As for me? Haven’t got anyone. Free as a bird.”

She is relaxed now, humorous, and he commits every laugh she makes to memory. The belly laugh at something unexpectedly hilarious, where her eyes and nose crinkle. The half-derisive scoffing laugh drenched in sarcasm. Molly sinks back into the swing seat, folding her arms.

(His coat really does drown her.)

Some love song he’s never heard before reaches its crescendo back in the conservatory, the party miraculously moved on from its seasonal delirium. Molly stands, wobbling as she adjusts to firm ground. He swallows a smile.

On her, his coat brushes the wooden floor of the porch. She turns with a curiosity in her eyes.

“Would your girlfriend – sorry, _potential_ girlfriend – mind if I asked for a dance off you?”

“I don’t know.” He eyes her offered hand. “It’s up to her.”

She giggles (a brief snatch of humour, almost like a hiccup, that leaves her as quickly as it comes and makes her bite her bottom lip) and turns away from him, walking down the steps. The last few flakes of snow catch in her hair and on his coat.

“Shit!” she exclaims into the midnight air. She starts shrugging off the coat, shaking her head. “Sorry, I’m so sorry, I forgot I was wearing it—”

“It’s alright,” he says automatically, happy to give her anything if it means she stays in his company for a little while. He stands, adopting a reassuring tone as she frowns at him, his coat already half off her shoulders.

“You need it more than I do,” he explains, voice soft. Her pale skin is inches from his fingers. Her collarbone forms a neat line towards the deep groove of her clavicle. He clenches his fist and draws it back.

“Thanks,” she says, avoiding his eye. She draws the coat back over her shoulders. “You’ll get it back, I promise.”

“I’m sure.” He swallows. Snow is seeping into his shoes, sticking to his hair, soaking his shirt. A brief thought of Mycroft’s fury comes and goes. His attention is entirely on her. Whether he’s looking at her or not, thinking of her or not, his focus is her. The woman who doesn’t even know he exists yet.

She steps forward and puts her hand on his shoulder. To hold her waist is an effort, the knowledge of her, in front of him, too much for his mind to process. So everything about her becomes intolerably warm, bleeding through the wool material of the coat. The hem rustles against the damp ground and the last of the snowflakes. She takes his hand and somehow, she isn’t so warm anymore. She is a presence, a real person who has cold hands and cheeks flushed red from the woollen coat which drowns her. He barely hears the words of the song, just its slow piano tempo. He curls her cold hand to his chest. She hisses.

“You’re about as cold as I am.”

“Consequence,” he says blandly, smiling when she smiles, looking up at him. Molly Hooper really is tiny. And beautiful. Her hair, at this current moment in time, is dyed red and short, finishing at her shoulders. It is not his place to carry a preference.

They sway without rhythm or plan. In circles they go, the last of snowflakes soaking his shoes and the hem of his coat.

Then they pause. Her brown eyes drop, her attention hovers on his lips. Her lips are thin, small, and she erroneously feels the need to compensate for them.

Her shoes make her tiptoe. Makes him bend his head. The hand she has on his shoulder slides towards his nape, his hand on her waist slides underneath the coat and some mad part of him urges him to break all the rules, gather her up in his arms and take her back to the place that made her exist in his head. (What it would be like, if they met out of the blue? Would he kiss her as he kisses her now? Or would he pass her by, deride her as one of the other, lesser, humans? God, he might’ve missed _this_. His chest tightens.)

Molly jerks away. Shoves off his coat and presses it into his open arms. A last hurrah of snow falls between them, obscuring her apologetic mouth and her stricken eyes.

“I’m so sorry – your girlfriend – I shouldn’t have done that. Jesus, I’m – I’m just so sorry, okay?” She runs through the snow and slams the front door behind her.

She passes a leaving Victor.

“Sherlock? Something happen?”

He storms past Victor, stopping at the front door. The end of the party, guests wander through the house to pick up coats and handbags. She is nowhere to be seen.

Victor shivers, rubbing his hands, pulling down the sleeves of his cable knit sweater, as he steps inside.

“Hey,” he says, trying again, “did anything happen? You seem – I don’t know.”

“I kissed Molly.” He lets the bomb drop with as much calm as he can muster, though his fingers tremble. He snatches a blue scarf off one of the coat hooks and loops it around his neck. (Distraction.)

“Oh fuck. Wait – is that yours?”

“No,” Sherlock snarls. He wrenches open the front door, shoving on his coat. The tails of it flick out behind him as he storms down the path. Victor calls his name. Meena asks her husband what’s wrong. Sherlock flips up his collar. The whole coat smells of her. The first thing he does when he crosses the threshold is shove the thing into the washing machine.

The second thing he does is check the floorboards.

The ratty, second-hand copy of Tess of the D’Ubervilles, lost on a train two days ago, picked up by him, has been picked up by her. A skull sits in its place. The note is tucked between its decomposed teeth, signed with her name.

_I’ve decided to call him Billy. Good name, don’t you think?_

It goes on the fireplace.


	237. Late Night Thoughts. (Sally Donovan/Greg Lestrade)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> introspectivenavelgazer asked: "Sally/lestrade and things you said at 1am".

Greg says stupid things when he’s tired. Or when he’s hungry. (His ex-wife liked to call it ‘dipshit hour’, and that made him laugh.) Right now, he’s both. Staring at an empty warehouse in the onset of winter, constantly having to wipe down the windows from his breath, he is most definitely both. 

When he goes out normally, he only orders a main course and dessert. His wages don’t really call for slap-up meals, so it’s usually a steak and chips for the main and a slab of cake for the dessert. When working, he goes for a sandwich from the canteen. It does the job, fuels his brain enough to pull through the night. (He’s lost the taste of donuts. Every time one goes near his gob, something catastrophic happens and he _is_ a bit of a superstitious bastard.)

“You sure this tip will pay off?” Sally asks from beside him. He mumbles distractedly.

“Could do.”

“A lot of people wouldn’t organise a stakeout on a ‘could do’, boss.” Sally coolly sips her coffee. She had a croissant earlier, laying it out on a napkin. Butter grease stains it. Crumbs dot her bottom lip.

Greg rubs his hands together, breathing on them.

“Yeah, well.” He almost makes a remark about having more experience than most people, and he means his superiors, but it sounds like an insult to Sally and that’s the last thing he wants to do.

“Who gave you the tip?”

“Some old geezer. Came into the station and insisted on talking to me.”

“Huh.” Sally arches an eyebrow. She shifts in her seat. “You don’t think—”

“Sherlock’s in Madrid – on that jewel theft,” Greg replies. He frowns. “He couldn’t have—”

“Wouldn’t put it past him.”

There had been something withering about the old geezer’s eyes. “Bastard.”

“I wonder if the Spanish police like him as much as you do.”

“I’m sure they’d make their displeasure with him known. _El Senero Holmes_ , get-a out-a of-a the crime scene-a!”

Sally blasts a laugh. “What kind of accent is _that_?”

“You never watched ‘Allo ‘Allo?”

“Bits of it. Always liked the Resistance girl best. Michelle?” On Greg’s nod, Sally smiles broadly, lighting up the car. “Listen very carefully, I shall say this only once.”

Greg chuckles, shaking his head. “That’s an abysmal French accent.”

“No worse than the original.”

“True. When did you stop calling me boss?”

There it is. Dipshit hour, stupid thing said. It’s a stupid thing he’s been thinking for ages, the unnerving way he’s so relaxed around Sally Donovan, the one he trusts to save his life, the way he’s so open with her. He’d stumped up over two grand to figure out why he couldn’t open up to his wife in the end, and with Sally, it was easier to talk to her than it was to talk to a professional therapist.

“Right about the time you started calling me Sally,” a twinkle enters her eyes, “boss.”

“Figures,” says Greg. He swallows. “Donovan.” 

They both look back at the empty warehouse. Greg rubs the window free of mist. In the dark of the car, he feels Sally’s fingers, warmed by her coffee cup, thread through his. He looks back at her. A grin gradually finds him. He leans forward, cupping her chin and brushing his thumb over her bottom lip. The crumbs fall onto her jacket. He leans forward and kisses her. She tastes of butter and vanilla and spiced pumpkin. She’s beautiful.

“We should probably—” Sally mumbles against his lips.

“I know, I know,” he mutters back. He takes one last taste of her and grins again. “But we can continue later.”

“Of course boss.”

“Carry on, Donovan.” He looks back at the empty warehouse and squeezes Sally’s fingers. She squeezes them right back.


	238. Happy Birthday, Molly Hooper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> likingthistoomuch asked: "its Molly's bday and she's planned to happily spend it wid wine, toby and Twelve. Sherlock disagrees."

Constricted within the confines of a laptop screen, Sherlock Holmes glowered. Setting him down on the kitchen table, Molly busied herself with opening a bottle of wine. It wasn’t the cheapest wine around (Sherlock’s influence) but it also wasn’t the most expensive (her stubbornness), and more than good enough for an evening’s company.

“What year?” Sherlock asked, glancing at the bottle. 

“No idea. Not like I’m holding a dinner party.”

“You should be.”

“I don’t want to,” Molly said brightly. Toby, leaping up to the kitchen worktop, rubbed at her palm. She duly stroked the length of his back. He purred loudly. Molly sipped at her glass, glancing at her laptop.

“A television show, a furball—” _Mreow_ , came Toby’s protest, “and wine. For a birthday?”

“It’s good enough.”

“You’re more than ‘good enough’,” Sherlock responded flatly, and Molly raised an eyebrow. He waved a dismissive hand. “Compliment.”

“I know.” Molly wandered into the bedroom, setting him and her wine down on the dresser. Opening the lower drawer, she frowned. Raising up to her feet, she glanced at Sherlock’s pixelated features. The bad signal changed, and his features were thrown back into sharp relief. Tucking her hands against her hips, she tilted her head.

“Did you iron my pyjamas?”

“Categorised too. Favourites, occasional, everyday,” Sherlock replied, ticking them off with his fingers. He shrugged. “Thought it might help.”

Molly glanced down at the open drawer. She picked out a silk pastel pink teddy, trimmed with intricate lace at its hem. She raised an eyebrow. “Your favourites?”

“A compromise of favourites.”

“Hm.” Tucking it back into the drawer, she brought out an old university T-shirt and star-patterned cotton shorts. Throwing them on the edge of the bed, she pulled off her scrub tunic, stuffing it into the bin. She peeled off her bra with a sigh. She stuffed it into the laundry basket, wandering back to the bed.

“I never believed I’d see you so domestic,” Sherlock mused from his place atop the dresser. “When first we met.”

“I don’t think you were particularly interested in my domestic habits then Sherlock,” Molly retorted, pulling the T-shirt over her bare breasts. She tugged at her trousers, stained with flecks of dried remnants of a particularly messy autopsy. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“What’s that?” he said, pointing. Molly glanced at the stain.

“Gastric acid. I told you about today’s autopsy, didn’t I?” She shimmied out of the trousers, dumping them in the bin. “Required a change of clothes. I remember sending you a text.”

“Oh yes. Could you—?”

“I’ll keep some body parts spare, yes. The stomach’s shot to hell though, so you won’t get much out of it.”

“Well that’s no fun,” Sherlock sighed, leaning back in his armchair. The hotel behind him was stark and businesslike, greens and browns, paid for by his client. Apparently the food was atrocious, and made him long for her food. She’d found a confidence in her own abilities after moving in with Sherlock. She wasn’t the next Michelin starred chef, but at least she didn’t view the kitchen as a place which occasionally caught fire.

“You’re lucky you get any body parts at all.”

“Perks of dating the head of the department.” 

Molly rolled her eyes as she sat on the edge of the bed. Lifting her leg, planting her heel into the mattress, she rolled her sock down her ankle. “Worst line in history,” she said, taking off the other. She stood, bending down to retrieve the shorts.

“Molly?”

“Mm?”

“Do me a favour. Go over to the mirror.”

Molly paused. She glanced towards her laptop. Her husband stared at her with examination, leaning forward now in his chair. A corner of her mouth tilted up.

“Okay.”

She moved over to the mirror, adjusting the laptop so Sherlock could see. Her old university screamed its logo back at her. Her knickers were black, lacy enough to be see through. It had been her little birthday treat to herself, to wear her favourite lingerie set at work. A naughty distraction to see how everyone saw her as Molly Hooper-Holmes, astonishingly quiet compared to her loud, eccentric husband and his equally boisterous sidekick, when she felt like a goddess underneath. 

She’d honestly expected Sherlock to mention the lingerie sooner.

“Molly, do you want to tell me what I want you to do?” His voice was low now, the exact spot he knew relaxed her, unlocked that space in her head where the world was nothing and all she had to do was float and obey.

She shook her head.

“Good,” said her husband. Heat pooled low in her belly. She reflexively pressed her thighs together. A hiss of a breath, and she relaxed again. “Bend forward a little. Steady yourself if you need to.”

She obeyed. Her forehead was inches from the mirror. Warm sticky clouds of her breath formed against its surface.

“Tell me. What would happen if I was there.”

“You’d be behind me,” Molly said softly, a smile coming to her lips. He loved to hear her speak. Proud as he was of her, of her ability to be so unreadable to him, an endless fascination, he loved knowing her most of all. He loved knowing what she liked. 

Her hands settled on her stomach. Matching the pace of her actions with the pace of her words, she spoke. “Your hands would trace the length of me – you’d explore me. Only when I couldn’t bear it any longer would you – would you give in.”

Touching herself, she whined and sighed, resting her forehead against the mirror’s cool surface. Sherlock’s voice guided her further to the brink, and soon, she was tumbling over the precipice with a wail of her husband’s name.

* * *

Returning from her shower, ruffling at her damp hair, Molly glanced at the name flashing on her screen. Pressing the call button, she dropped her towel and resumed dressing into her pyjamas. Wrapped in one of the hotel sheets, the ends of his hair damp, Sherlock yawned in greeting. Molly laughed, picking him up from his place on the dresser, setting him on the bed as she slid between the sheets.

“That was good,” she mumbled, settling her head into the pillow. “More than good,” she added, remembering his earlier words and grinning.

“Glad of it,” Sherlock replied. His wedding band glinted blue from his tablet’s light. Molly smiled, drumming her fingers softly on the surface of her laptop.

“Now you’ve got to do me a favour,” she said, sleep already coming to take her. Sherlock glanced at her.

“Hm?”

“Solve your case. I miss sleeping next to you.”

A small wistful smile found her husband.

“Just for the next two days,” he said. “Goodnight Molly.”

“Goodnight Sherlock.” Shutting her laptop, Molly tucked it underneath the bed and slept. 

Sometimes the most inexpensive of gifts could really be the best.


	239. Junior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a prompt fill, but will be recognisable to anyone who's watched Steven Moffat's Coupling and the episode, "My Dinner in Hell".

Mary blinked. “Familiar?”

Molly nodded. “Mm-hm. It looked… familiar.”

“You deal with bodies, Molly. Admittedly dead ones, but bodies are –  _familiar_  – in the basics.”

“This was a different kind of familiar.”

* * *

Lestrade squinted, taking another gulp of his beer. “Okay, do it again.”

Sherlock mimed the action, tipping his head to one side, furrowing his brow. He made a low noise at the back of his throat, a small ‘huh’ sound.

“So it was that  _exact_  reaction?” Lestrade asked. He struggled to hide his laughter. John cleared his throat.

“I don’t even know why we’re discussing this,” he remarked.

“Lestrade asked for details,” Sherlock said witheringly. “Forgive me for giving them to him.”

John smirked. “Seems like the only thing you’ve been giving lately.”

“Molly had no need to complain,” Sherlock said. “She was too busy.”

“Busy doing what?”

“Don’t think we really want to know,” Lestrade said quickly. “C’mon, back to this – problem.”

“Considering the number of times Molly—”

“ _No_ ,” said Lestrade and John at once.

“You asked for details.”

“Not that many,” John said, raising a warning eyebrow.

Sherlock sighed. “Fine. It, her reaction, wasn’t a problem. It was an – oddity. In an otherwise productive evening.”

* * *

Spooning a portion of ice cream into her mouth, Mary’s eyes widened as Molly talked. Swallowing, she shook her head. “Nope. I don’t believe you.”

“You have to!” Molly threw down her spoon, glaring hard at Mary. “I promise you, it happened.”

“That sort of thing doesn’t happen. And anyway – you can’t prove it.”

Molly sighed. Turning in her seat, she caught the eye of the waiter. Molly smiled as they approached. “Could we have the bill please?”

“Something wrong?” Mary asked, glancing towards the departing waiter. Turning back in her seat, shaking her head, Molly wiped at her mouth with her napkin.

“No.” She fixed her friend with a stare. “Just proving something.”

* * *

They broke out into the mild summer evening, strolling down the pavement, Sherlock striding along ahead. Lestrade frowned. The evening’s main subject of conversation was still in his train of thought.

“You’re _sure_? That was how she reacted?”

“Yes,” Sherlock bit out, scanning the quiet streets. Lestrade shrugged.

“I thought you’d be a bit more upset. That’s not usually how a woman reacts to seeing a man naked.” He glanced at John. “Not in my experience.”

John nodded. “Not in mine either.”

Sherlock staggered to a halt. The tails of his coat fluttered around his feet as he whirled on them.

“And how do they _usually_ react?” he asked, carrying an accusation in his sharp tone.

“Not like—” Lestrade did a brief copy of Sherlock’s earlier mime, tilting his head and frowning, “that.”

Sherlock bristled. His weight shifted from foot to foot. He whirled back around, flipping up his collar. “I’m sure she had her own reasons.”

John scoffed a laugh. “Yeah, sure she did.”

Lestrade joined John’s mirth, giggling.  “Maybe it was just a small reason. Nothing to be surprised by.”

“Oh yeah – a teeny _tiny_ reason,” John replied.

Sherlock’s hands dived into his coat pockets. His mobile was soon clamped to his ear. Lestrade and John’s giggles stopped, and they halted.

“What are you doing?” Lestrade asked.

“Finding out,” Sherlock snapped, storming down the street. Molly picked up after the first ring. Beyond her voice, there was low pulsating music and murmured voices. A bar?

“Sherlock? Can we – um – speak later? It’s not a particularly good time—”

“I need you to answer a question.” He could feel the combined heat of John and Lestrade’s curiosity, eager to hear every word of his quiet conversation, on the back of his neck. “Your reaction. To me.”

“That’s – a broad topic, Sherlock.” She sounded uncomfortable. Footsteps indicated she was walking, or someone near her was. “Are you sure we can’t talk about this later?”

“Jesus!” Mary’s voice came through the microphone, tinny and distant. “It can’t be!”

“Molly?” Sherlock asked. His breath hitched. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” Molly replied, suddenly shrill. “Absolutely fine!”

“Tell me where you are,” Sherlock said firmly. “I’ll come and find you.”

“No – no! I promise—” _This seriously cannot be real_ , Mary screeched in the background, and Sherlock felt John’s hand on his shoulder, wrenching the phone from his hand and clamping it to his ear.

“Molly, seriously, tell me where you and Mary are,” he said, a soldier’s command, the body already taut with the thought of possible combat. A brief reply from Molly, and he nodded. “Thanks, Molly – no, don’t be stupid, of course we’re coming to find you.”

Hanging up, he tossed the phone back towards Sherlock and ran to the edge of the pavement, hailing a taxi. Sherlock tucked his phone back into his pocket.

“Where are they?”

“Molly said they were at Hoxton Square.”

“Isn’t that—?”

“No time,” Sherlock snapped at Lestrade, already climbing into the back of the taxi. “Come on!”

* * *

With the promise of a very large tip, the driver soon deposited them just at the end of Hoxton Square. Clambering out of the taxi, leaving John and Lestrade to pay, Sherlock sprinted down the length of the street, down the cobbled stones. He was seeking somewhere with voices, with music. Silent houses stared back at him.

Reaching the end of the street, he stopped. John and Lestrade caught up to him. All three looked about wildly, down alleyways and iron-wrought basement stairs.

The low pulsating music caught Sherlock’s ear. He turned his head to the right. From an open door, low music played. Through white framed windows, he saw a shop that would only be visited in the late hours of the evening.

“I knew it!” Lestrade whooped triumphantly. The triumph soon faded as John and Sherlock, eyebrows raised up towards their hairlines, looked at him. He shrugged, gazing at the cobbled stones. “The wife – tried to spice things up once… ya know…”

Sherlock looked away from Lestrade and squared his shoulders. He stalked into the shop.

Molly and Mary were hunched over something, their discussion a low exchange of whispers. A woman with braids and bracelets that click-clacked when she waved in greeting stood at the counter. Sherlock ignored her and stalked towards the two women.

“A late night curiosity?”

* * *

Molly leapt about a foot in the air. Whirling round, she kept her hands tight against her back, looking up into Sherlock’s disapproving face. He was tall, always so tall, and now he was most certainly, well, looming. His dark curls dropped over his forehead, his blue eyes narrowed, an eyebrow tilted and his hands tucked into his coat pockets.

“Sherlock!” she said, too brightly, and immediately wished she could swallow the greeting. “Hi. Didn’t – I thought told John not to come.”

“You seemed in trouble. Only now I realise, you seemed not to want to get into trouble.”

Molly suppressed a nervous laugh. “I – I – wasn’t trying to not – get into – I was looking for a gift.”

“A gift.”

“A gift, for a friend. A friend gift.”

Sherlock glanced over the shop’s products, all pinks and purples and incredibly incriminating. Molly blushed crimson.

“It was very sweet of all three of you to come down here,” Mary said suddenly, throwing Molly a lifebuoy when she was already half-drowning.

“Yes!” Molly clasped to the buoy with all she could. She took a step back from the group, keeping her arms firmly behind her back. “But you – you really don’t need to stay. We’re fine!”

“Yeah, absolutely fine,” Mary added. John frowned at his wife.

“I heard you shouting on the phone. You sounded scared.”

“I was just shocked that’s all.”

“By what?” Sherlock asked darkly. Molly risked another step back. The back of her legs bumped into a shelf. “There’s not much here that could be considered _shocking_.”

“Oh, the ‘shocking’ stuff’s for our regulars,” the cashier said blithely. “That’s all up in the attic. Want a look, any of you?”

No-one took her up on her offer. Taking the opportunity of not being the centre of attention for the minute moment, Molly dropped the package in her hands on the shelf.

“Right!” she said eagerly, rushing forward. She grasped Sherlock’s elbow, starting to steer him towards the door. “We’d better go.” She put on a yawn. “Very late.”

“No.” Sherlock jerked to a stop. A curiosity entered his eyes. “I want to see what you were going to buy. As a ‘friend gift’.”

Mary, in the red light of the shop, went white. Both she and Molly dived for the shelf. Sherlock reached it within three steps, swiping the package with his gloved hand from Molly’s. John and Lestrade crowded around Sherlock and the package he held. Molly’s head sank into her hands. Mary wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder and gently squeezed.

“Junior William?” Lestrade’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “I hope that’s not some horrible pun.”

“Ten inches?” John whispered.

“Oh!” said the cashier cheerfully, leaving her post and coming towards the group. Molly’s head whipped up.

“No—”

“The Junior William! That one’s really popular!” the cashier said. She took the package from Sherlock’s hands. “We give every customer who buys one a spare set of batteries. Never ever had to refund one, in all the time I’ve been here. 100% satisfaction rate.”

“Well it’s bloody terrifying to me,” Lestrade murmured.

“And why exactly were you particularly interested in this one, Molly?” Sherlock looked at her, his eyes glittering.

“I needed a second opinion,” Molly replied, looking everywhere but him.

“And you thought Mary was the best option?”

“She didn’t believe that things like that—” she nodded towards the package, “could happen.”

“I’m having a struggle believing it myself,” Sherlock mused. “But now it springs to mind, I did have a very strange encounter with an artist once – who claimed they wanted to make me immortal.”

Sherlock tapped the box. “Never thought that would be the kind of immortality they meant.”

“THAT’S YOU?!” The disbelieving bellow came from Lestrade, and the package dropped to the floor, the cashier jumping in surprise at Lestrade’s indignation.

“Bloody hell!” Pale, John grabbed Mary’s hand. Mary had dissolved into a fit of giggles. “Mary, c’mon. We’re going home.”

Lestrade followed suit of the Watsons. Sherlock grinned down at Molly.

“Now your reaction to me makes a lot more sense,” he said, sliding his hand into hers. “And why the device in your drawer seemed so familiar.”

Molly blushed crimson. The cashier, picking up the package, lit up at his words. Hurriedly, Molly dragged Sherlock out of the shop into the street, steering him down the cobbled stones.

“If I’d known the real life version would be this much trouble, I’d have stuck with the mechanical version,” she spat. Her ire became a gasp when she felt a tug on her hand, pulling her back the way they came. She turned as Sherlock hurried down the street.

“What are you doing?” she huffed as he pushed her down into a dark alleyway. Sherlock planted his hands on the brick at either side of her head, bending down to kiss her. She moaned into his mouth, wrapping her arms around his waist. His thigh pressed between her legs, opening her for him. Parting from her, he nibbled gently at her earlobe, whispering, his breath hot on her skin.

“Luckily for you, Molly, I don’t need batteries.”


	240. In Front of Her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thenworld asked: "the I Found song by Amber Run. maybe."

They keep trying to give her a shock blanket, which she doesn’t need. She might deal with dead bodies, but she knows about bloody shock, she spent enough time learning about her own damn industry. Branches, stretching out and receding, of red and blue and white (stretching, receding, stretching) keep her occupied as the police, Greg, stare at her with concern and the dead body lying in leaves. Their blood, a spatter pattern, marks her wrist, arm, and chest, the exposed pieces of flesh where her kidnapper tore at her clothes, shoving her from one cold, cramped place to another. 

She treats all of it—the blood, the rips, the body—as facts. It’ll crumble away soon, the blank face, into tears and shivers and a way of looking at the world she’ll spend a lifetime trying to run away from. She hugs the blanket tight around her body.

Through the trees, a dark figure stands. His hair catches with the winter wind. So do the tails of his coat. His gloved hands curl into a clenched fist as Greg announces what she already knew. He walks away, and the rain starts.

* * *

When it comes, it is so much worse than she predicted. She sobs and doesn’t sleep for days, weeks. Shakes until she feels she could break apart and to die is so much easier than this, isn’t it? The survival instinct kicks in. Screams and punches out from the box she’s crammed it into, squeezing it down into the corner of her head. Sunshine is stifling through the glass of an ancient cottage, drystone and weather-beaten. Fields, with sheep. _Baa_ , they go. _Baa._ She hates the noise, that endless whistle of the summer breeze. The _putta-putta-burp_ of the old tractor. _Putta-putta_ , _putta-putta_ —

And it all happens before him. He stands there like a bloody statue, watching her with his hands locked behind his back, eyes like a security camera, recording this crumbling away of the woman who killed him.

“Molly,” he says, but there’s no advice given. He doesn’t tell her to calm down or keep hydrated (that’ll come later, when the tears subside and she feels a little bit more like a human, but still too fragile, like a crystal cut antique, to do anything else but sleep).

Tucked in a corner of a small, too big bedroom, she looks up. He sits in the chair of a writing desk that’s covered in dust. Far away from her, and all of a sudden, too far away. She wipes her eyes, sniffs like she’s a toddler coming down from a tantrum. Usually, their tantrums come from a lack of understanding about the world.

She sinks into the plush covers and throws of an elegant French bed, its white paint chipped and exposing veins of iron. She lies on her side, tucking her knees up to her chest, her hands crossed over her stomach.

“May I join you?” comes the question after a long silence. Tears slide down her cheeks, vestiges of her panic that feels like a skin she’s shedding. This calm is odd. It’s thicker than any calm before. It’s not the shallow waves that come at the lip of the ocean and tickle your toes. It’s as if she’s diving, a white trail of water around her, her arms clasped to her sides as her legs kick out. Soon, she’ll break the surface, if she keeps kicking, and let out a gasp, a sigh, blinking away the brittle cold sea water, feeling it descend down her in drops as a sun breaks through clouds overhead.

“Yes,” comes her answer. The bed dips and creaks. His arms do not encompass her, don’t hold her. He leans over her instead, to place an artefact on her pillow. It tickles her nose. She picks it up between finger and thumb, holding it up in the sunlight. _Baa_ , go the sheep outside. _Putta-putta-burp_ goes the old tractor. The napkin carries old stains of grime and brick dust. A maroon ‘A’, extravagantly looped and italic, bracketed by overt floral designs. New logo, said Angelo with pride. Hm, grunted Sherlock as, underneath the table, his thumb ghosted over her knuckles. The only thing her kidnapper hadn’t found on her.

She clutches the napkin tightly, then lays it out on the threaded, quilted covers, brushing her palm over it. The maroon 'A’ stares back at her.

“How’s the case?” she asks, throat hoarse.

“We have three new leads. One of them looks likely. He won’t get you again. Never again.”

“I wish he’d never got me in the first place.”

“I do too.”

“Do you want to go?”

“I know you’re sick of hearing this but – that depends on you.”

She swallows. “I don’t know.”

“I want to stay.”

She repeats her verdict, but it has less conviction this time.

There is no creak of the bed. Only squeaks and the drop of his shoes on the floor. 

“You’ll get cold feet,” she says lamely.

“I’ve got socks on,” he replies. It’s so banal. So trivial. It’s as if—as if this has never happened. As if the bed below them is theirs, the wood of the floor is the wood of 221B, as if she’ll look up and see a periodic table Blu-tacked to the wall. More echoes fall down her cheeks, more violent than the last. She curls into herself as her body heaves and trembles.

One large hand rests on her hip as he slides down the bed, resting on his side. The other rubs up and down the length of her back. The sheep still make their noise, the old tractor still drives on. She kicks and moves, and the surface breaks. Her tears fade into sleep, and she dreams of a sun-soaked ocean.


	241. Mrs Hooper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kelseyrare asked for "20. things you said that I wasn't meant to hear" and "21. Things you said when we were on top of the world". Slightly NSFW.

“I just don’t want to be – you know – Mrs Molly Holmes.” There’s enough in the overheard sentence that Sherlock is made to pause outside the hotel room door. 

“ _What?_ ” John, beside him, mouths. His eyebrows furrow.

“Oh,” says the voice of Mary Watson. “Why didn’t you say something before?” 

Sherlock storms down the corridor without hearing the answer. 

Blood pounding in his ears, he walks in a half-daze, half-rage until he comes to a door. He fumbles for its key card, throwing open the door as soon as the beep comes. He slams it shut with his foot, and sinks onto the bed. The scattered rose petals, each painstakingly placed, flutter and land around his shoes. He loathes to use cliché, loathe to term everything extraordinary “brilliant” as John Watson did, but he’d felt secure in privately regarding today as one of those rare days. When the rest of the world was an untouchable force, far below him, with nothing to trouble him. The bump is hard, and he is winded as if punched in the gut. Loosening his tie, he falls back on the bed, brushing back the petals and throwing an arm over his eyes, blocking out the watery winter sunlight. The pounding slowly ceases.

Everyone had called him (them) an idiot (idiots) for deciding to marry in winter. Mrs Hudson, subconsciously possessing a cynical view to marriage, protested that it would lead to bad luck.

John’s footsteps are muted on the thick carpet.

“Me and my big mouth.” His fingers, curling against his temple, pause and stretch out. Not John.

When he’d curiously asked her to describe her wedding dress, she’d shrugged and said it was nothing much. Plain? he asked. Yes, she nodded. But perfect? suggested he. She grinned back. But perfect.

Molly Hooper is a liar.

She’s a goddess in undecorated satin that pools at the line of her collarbone and around her feet.

He lays his head back on the bed.

“I figured you’d heard when I found John hovering at the door, face like thunder. Took a bit of explaining to get him to calm down. Even now I think he’s still a bit confused.” He is petulant and doesn’t rise at her amused, soothing tone. He is petulant indeed and decides she is patronising him. “Would it help if I told you what I told him?”

Rain spatters against the polished window, a sudden shower. Pathetic fallacy.

He folds his hands over his stomach. “Don’t think so.”

“Mr Holmes, you’re an idiot.”

“And you’re cruel.”

“I want to be Mrs Hooper, you dolt.”

“But you don’t want to—” He is halfway to standing when he registers what she actually said. _Mrs._ He sighs, his shoulders sinking.

“You do want to marry me.”

“I’d say it’s because I’m trying to reclaim the idea that a woman can keep her own name and still love her husband as much as any other person. But it’s also laziness. I’ve been published under my own name, I’ve got bank accounts, saving accounts, the rent – the list does go on.”

Just as he plans, she yelps when he grabs her by her waist and drags her down to the bed. They land on the soft mattress with a bump, and their teeth clack as they kiss. She murmurs how thankful she is she hasn’t had her hair done yet, and he holds her closer in response. He breaks from her mouth and drops more kisses to her neck and collarbone. The silk of her dress is cool around him. He mouths at her collarbone, sinking his teeth against, softly running his tongue over the warm skin.

Her palm presses against his chest. Careful, she whispers, giggles. Her fingers find his hair and pull his head back with enough firmness he hisses as his eyes are forced to find hers.

She presses a finger to his lips, brushing her fingertip over his bottom lip.

“It’s called the honeymoon suite for a reason,” she says with hunger in her eyes.

“Thought we agreed honeymoons are ridiculous,” he replies, ducking in for a kiss, but she tugs him back. He closes his eyes briefly, sucking in the sigh of pleasure. She hums.

“Want to bet?”

“Not again. What would our children be called?”

“Whatever they want. Not Trixie-Bell Hopscotch Moon Unit, or whatever kind of rock star name.”

“Why would we inflict that on our child?”

“You’re a celebrity.”

“Consulting detective.”

“Celebrities call their kids all kinds of weird shit.” Her free hand trails down his torso and fiddles with his belt.

“Consulting detectives are much wiser.”

She flicks open the button and pulls down the zip. Her hand slips past the line of his pants. “Debatable.”

He lets out a shaky breath as she touches his cock, already half-hard.

“Hooper-Holmes?” he manages to suggest.

She shrugs and the casualness of her smile is maddening. He has half a mind to kick off his trousers and shoes and fuck her so hard, with her arms pinned above her head by his palms, she won’t be able to get through ‘to have and to hold’ without giggling.

“It has a ring to it,” she says, pouting when he wrenches her hand out from his pants.

“You know what people will say. They’ll say you’re breaking the rules,” he says, with a roll of his eyes that she matches. He traces the line of her temple, her jaw, with his forefinger. A stray lock of hair falls over her cheek into her mouth. He tucks it back behind her ear with a tilted smile.

“They’ll say you’re henpecked. That I can’t love you enough.” He hears a faint sense of fear at the edge of the teasing.

“Morons. The only time I worried about you not taking my name was when I thought you didn’t want me.” He slides off the bed, kneeling before his soon-to-be wife. He slides his hands, reverently, up her shins underneath the hem of her dress to her thighs. “I prefer Hooper to Holmes anyway.”

She helps as he removes his jacket, folding it neatly on the floor next to him. He leans forward, gently, gradually, kissing every beautiful space of her thighs.

“Mrs Hooper,” he says quietly, the delights of the day growing back as he says it again and again, a mantra into a prayer. His soon-to-be wife has to bite her hand to stop them being heard, and she kisses him hard, desperately, as punishment, pulling him to stand between her thighs.

“Mr Holmes,” she murmurs. He drops to his knees before her again and wraps his arms around in a quiet, calm embrace. He kisses her shoulder.

“Will you marry me, Molly Hooper?”

“Of course I will, Mr Holmes.” She kisses him again, brushing her nose against his. “I love you.”

He reciprocates in kind, standing. Putting on his jacket, doing up his trousers, he watches as she settles her skirt back at her feet. He helps her to her feet. Tenderly, the two of them caught in a companionable silence, he cups her cheek. She’s spending the rest of her life with him.

He kisses her forehead. “I love you too.”


	242. Phone Call. (Molly Hooper/Irene Adler) (Teen!lock)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thenworld asked: "molly/irene things you said over the phone".

Molly knew that her friends had habits. Especially when they were upset. Meena liked to go to her room and throw her clothes out of her drawers onto her bed. She’d claimed that her mother spent more time folding clothes than listening to her. Irene was wealthy and lived on the street on the hill with mansions side by side, two acres of garden to each of their names. In the two acres her father had, Irene’s family had a tree. A small tree, but a tree with evergreen leaves. A house, crafted out of fine hardwood, sat among the branches. The inside of it was clean and cosy, even in the coldest of winters and it didn’t leak in the rain. It was Irene’s treehouse, and she was proud of it.

A soft breeze moved the paper cup, dangling from a piece of string, backwards and forwards. Standing in the doorway that led out into the garden, Irene’s nanny pled for her to come down inside for tea. Molly stepped forward and took the cup. She pressed it against her lips.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, throwing her voice up just in case. She pressed the cup to her ear.

“I’m bored,” came the reply.

“That’s not it,” responded Molly. When Irene was bored, she went off and did something. She didn’t sulk.

“I’m not telling you,” Irene said.

“You know you can.”

“I’m not—”

Molly waited.

The rope ladder to the tree house fell over the side, unrolling until the last rung brushed over the mowed grass. Molly pressed the cup to her ear.

“I’m not telling you _here._ ”

Letting go of the cup, she climbed each rung of the rope ladder. Coming to the top, she clambered onto the small veranda of the tree house. From beyond a door which they both had to crouch to fit under now, Irene waved. Molly crawled into the dim light of the treehouse. A blanket covered a mattress, and candles flickered in mason jars. A basket of snacks was wedged in at Irene’s side. She still held the paper cup between her fingers, rolling it against her other palm in thought. Molly shifted to sit beside her.

She nudged her. “C’mon then.”

“I’ve suddenly decided I don’t want to,” Irene said, a forced impishness in her smile. Molly frowned. Cupping Irene’s face, she pressed her thumbs gently against the corners of her mouth. She pushed her friend’s mouth down into a frown. Irene giggled as Molly let her go.

“It’s closer to the truth,” Molly said with a shrug.

“Some idiot teased me about the fact I haven’t been kissed yet. Said I act all high and mighty, but there’s no point to it because I haven’t had my first kiss. I kicked him, which obviously led to detention, but at least I made it clear to him that first kisses aren’t actually all that—”

“Would it be okay if I kissed you?”

Irene went white, and Molly instantly regretted asking the question she’d been planning since her birthday. She’d seen Irene with chocolate icing marking her Cupid’s bow and had been taken with the idea of kissing it off her.

“Why would you want to?”

“Because I – I’d like to.” She can’t give anything but the truth.

“Because you’re curious?”

“No! No! I just… like you.”

“As more…”

“More than a friend. So. May I? Kiss you?”

“Molly…”

“Hm?”

“All that stuff about first kisses not being important.”

Molly sighed. “Yeah.”

Irene drew her close and pressed a light kiss to the corner of her lips. “It was bullshit.”

“Good. I’m going to kiss you now.”


	243. The Game (Georgian AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twixen83 asked: "Something with a locket/necklace." I got reading my favourite poem, “The Highwayman”, and decided to put a Sherlolly spin on it (with a different ending). Slightly Mature rating.

His black curls brushed against her cool, pale stomach. His mouth was warm, dropping kisses to her skin. Molly’s breath hitched, her fingers threading through his hair, guiding him as she writhed and gasped, softly, his name.

“Sherlock…”

He hummed against her, shifting further down her body, his hands stroking down the path of her hips to hold her thighs. Her eyes wandered around the dim inn room. The only light was the moonlight past the closed window, where rain thundered beyond the thick glass. He’d seen her by the flame of her oil lamp, and his horse’s hooves clattered over the pebbled courtyard. She listened to each footstep on the staircase, extinguishing the flame as her door opened. He’d kissed her, a hidden smile at his lips. His dark cloak was folded over the chair by the hearth, his sword lit by the sliver of moonlight.

His first taste of her brought her back, and she arched with a deep moan, clutching at his curls, the bedsheets, as he went deeper and deeper, knowing exactly how to bring her to the brink, and the sounds she made when she fell.

* * *

Holding her in the dark, sitting against the headboard of her bed, he kissed her temple. His fingers threaded through his prize. A gift to her, taken from a wife who’d murdered her husband that very same night.

“She spat at me when I removed these from her,” he mused. The pearls of the necklace fell over his fingers like liquid. He clutched them in his palm, stretching out his hand over her abdomen. Molly held him closer and tilted her head back as he kissed her. “Claimed they were the last thing her husband gave her.”

Molly smile’s faded, her eyebrow cocked. Sherlock shrugged.

“They were given to her by her lover. Her husband had recently lost his fortune; he had no money for pearls like these.”

Molly picked up one and held it up in the dark. In this light, she only saw edges of him. The line of his jaw, his mop of curls mussed from riding, a hint of his full lips and deep Cupid’s bow. Thunder rumbled overhead. She dropped the pearl back to her stomach, brushing her fingertips over his jaw. She drew her thumb against his bottom lip. He held her hand and brought it to his mouth to kiss her palm. She saw eyes she’d long ago memorised, holding onto her. His other hand, at her shoulder, stroked the high of her back thoughtfully.

“Come with me.”

In all their times together, on every embrace they’d shared in the small inn room, he’d never made her such an offer.

“Be a highwayman?” she asked, her cheeks dimpled.

“I’ve seen you fight. And I want a partner. Moreover—” he kissed her fingers, “I want you.”

Molly’s smile turned wry.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Down below, a thud came at the inn door that Molly felt against her spine. The thud came again, a thunderous rapping in the hard rain. Hurrying out of the bed, her lover hurried to dress. Opening the window by a crack, Molly looked down at the courtyard below. The captain and his guards were crowded around the pebbled square. A jailer drove a wagon up the path towards the inn. The captain, a permanent frown in his reptilian features, spoke to him. One of his men rose his head, glancing over the building of the inn.

“In the name of the King!” came the call over the rain. More thudding, more knocking.

“I must have made him really quite cross this time,” Sherlock said. He gave a grin as he cupped Molly’s face, pressing his mouth to hers in a hard kiss.

“You’ll be the death of me one day,” she said with a laugh, despite herself. The fear soon pervaded, and her laugh was gone. She pushed at his stomach, urging him out of the room. “Use the tunnel, I’ll follow. Go! Go!”

A slamming of a door came seconds before thundering footsteps came up the stairs. Molly drew the sheets over her body, lying down as if in sleep.

Her door flung open, swinging on its hinges. The captain glowered as he stormed into the room. It became a twisted smile when his eye landed on her. He had a high forehead and hair combed back, cut short. His eyes narrowed as he approached her. Two of his soldiers searched the room, kicking over chairs and chests and tables.

“Sleeping, Mistress Hooper?” the captain asked softly.

“Yes Captain,” she replied. The pearls were heavy around her neck.

“Sir,” said a soldier, coming to stand in the doorway of her room. The captain looked up, briefly and waved a hand. The soldier nodded. “We can’t find Holmes anywhere here.”

The captain gave a nod. His attention returned to Molly. He sniffed the air. His smirk returned.

“Oh, he’s been here.” Captain Moriarty suddenly grabbed hold of Molly’s arm. She cried out as he pulled her out of the bed, her body hitting the floor. Bare before the captain and his soldiers, her evidence lay exposed at her throat.

“Where is Holmes?” he asked, with soft tones.

Molly stared up at the three men. “I don’t know.”

She was silent as Captain Moriarty grabbed her again and pulled her to her feet. He scanned her face.

“Leave us,” he snarled to the two soldiers. “Search for another exit. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to use the back door.”

Molly was silent still as they left.

Moriarty’s fingers threaded underneath the string of pearls around her neck. A vicious tug and the string snapped. The pearls scattered across the wooden floor.

Stepping back, he shrugged his red coat from his shoulders. The gold buttons glinted and flashed. He threw it into her arms and turned away from her. Righting the fallen chair, he sat down, not facing her.

“My soldiers are all over this inn, and are ordered to shoot your lover on sight.” Turning his head towards her, his smile grew. In a moment, she knew the game; his game that he wanted her and Sherlock to play. “Dress,” he ordered. “If you run, those orders will be turned on you.”

She obeyed, and as she was taken out into the rain, her hands in chains, walking towards the waggon as the horses whickered, Molly watched over the rolling hills that had been her home. That she had watched every night, waiting for the black gelding and the sword that flashed at his hip. The jailer snapped his whip against the horse’s backs. The army marched, led by their captain. Molly watched the landscape and her heart bloomed. Sherlock would come for her. Together, they would play the game. Together, they would win.


	244. Oxford Comma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some silly fluff after [this announcement](http://mollymatterrs.tumblr.com/post/154373834061/sherlockology-lovely-news-in-the-telegraph-today) was published in the Telegraph. Not a prompt fill.

“For God’s sake!”

“What?” Molly tilts an eyebrow.

Sherlock points at the birth announcement in the newspaper. “ _That._ ” He crinkles his nose. “They’ve missed a comma.”

“Where?”

“After your name.”

“Hm?”

“Oxford comma,” Sherlock explains, still looking disgusted. “They’ve missed a comma after your name. Not surprised they didn’t do a proof check.”

“Don’t suppose it’s their job to.” Molly hums shortly. “It’s up to the people who submit it.”

“It’s your fault then.”

The accusation is so instant that she laughs, glancing over his fingers speeding over his phone’s keypad. “I didn’t do it, Sherlock.”

“Mrs Hudson’s fault.”

“Mrs Hudson was too busy.”

“Who did then?”

“Well, we asked you, Sherlock. It was the one thing we actually asked you to do. You gave it a glance and said it was alright.” She narrows her eyes, peering at him. His fingers pause. She shrugs at his silence, and he returns her shrug with a blink. “I guessed you were correct.”


	245. Terms. (Parentlock AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thenworld asked me to make my tags on [this post](http://mollymatterrs.tumblr.com/post/155272336061/one-amber-owl-burningtheheartoutofyou-hed) real. Specifically, the tag '#can i play pretend and believe this is sherlock and molly broken up and awkwardly coming to terms about custody over their child?'

The door opens, Molly stands before him with Ada in her arms, and he wishes the door would close again. He swallows, clenching his fists.

“Hello.” He’s not used to doing this without lawyers present. But still - they promised each other - for Ada’s sake. Civility.

“Hey,” she replies, knowing his dislike for ‘hi’. Ada burbles happily and squirms in her arms. Molly kisses her cheek and hoists her against her chest, rocking her gently.

“So - um - time?”

“Time?”

“Is it?”

“Oh. Uh, well. You’re here, aren’t you?”

If he says yes, he prescribes to this time. He has to be here next week. And the next, and the next, all the weeks on Saturday at (he checks his watch) 1 o'clock in the afternoon.

“Yes,” he says immediately. His daughter, he knows now, is more important than any crime, even if it has Moriarty lurking in the shadows.

The flat door opens again, John strolling out with Rosamund in a papoose and Mary beside him.

“Hey Sherlock,” John says with a grin. “Rosie and Ada just had a playdate.” He glances to his own daughter, sleeping deeply with her head lolling forward. His grin widens, and Sherlock knows how he feels. “Think they tired each other out. See you around, eh?”

They wander off down the lane to their car. He takes a bus or a taxi here. Driving in London: a pointless activity.

His soon-to-be ex-wife hands him their child and hurries back into the flat, returning with bags and chairs, brightly coloured and more suited to a car boot than the back of a taxi. 

Sure enough, the taxi driver makes a comment and he ignores her kindness in his mind’s eye, saying “you can borrow my car” with the surface helplessness and inner strength that is her.

When finally back in 221b, he leaves the brightly coloured bags for the moment and simply sits with his daughter. She burbles and stares up at him with her four-month-old, sharp blue eyes.

“Time,” he repeats to himself softly. He closes his eyes as he kisses Ada’s forehead. “Time.”

The next week, he turns up in a car he’s borrowed off Mycroft. Molly’s kindness becomes a smile, slight and only at the corners of her mouth. 

It’s a start.


	246. Marking. (Parentlock AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inlovebynecessity asked: "teacher/single parent au". I added another favourite trope of mine, just for funsies.

It takes her two knocks to answer the door.

“Miss Hooper.”

“Mr Holmes.” Scruffier than her usual neat appearance with eyebrows raised high, her clothing isn’t based on fruit but cartoon cats. A real-life version shoots past her legs into the house, a sleek grey line of fur sliding between the gap of the door. His son’s primary school teacher sinks her features into a frown, perhaps fully registering his presence for the first time.

“How did you get hold of my address?”

Sherlock holds up the reason for his visit. She stares at the proffered stack of paper in surprise.

“Marcus’ science homework.”

“I marked it, yes.”

“I made a few adjustments.”

She opens the door a little wider, adopting the stance of a teacher, a straight back and blank face only slightly exasperated. “Mr Holmes, though I know parents do help their children with their homework on occasion, official policy does state that children complete assignments on their own—”

“To your marking.”

She blinks. Offence crosses into the teacherly expression.

“Pardon?”

He takes back the paper, scanning through it. “You mentioned here somewhere that a discussion of the Coronal heating problem was not necessary for the homework you set. You set a question about planetary orbit, did you not?”

“Mr Holmes—”

“Ah, you also mention that discussion of the cause of the Maunder Minimum is irrelevant—”

She scoffs, cutting him off. “I _never_ said that!”

Before he can reply, she grabs the paper from him, scanning the neatly typed up words. “If you actually look at my markings, I said – wait – why have you written wrong across it? In all capitals?”

“Because your theory was wrong.”

“I was positing an alternative! And,” she breathes, gathering her composure, “if we could return to the actual point – look, what I said here. ‘This is very interesting, but isn’t related to the question.”

“The Maunder Minimum is extremely relevant to the question.”

“If you’re writing a university physics paper, Mr Holmes, yes. However, your son is in Year 4. The Maunder Minimum isn’t on the—” She comes to an abrupt stop, glancing behind him. He turns, eyebrow raised. An elderly woman, curlers in her hair, is staring at them from the doorway house opposite, frowning with disapproval in her prune-like face.

“I could hear you two over my television programme,” she says, sniffing and glaring. Molly shrinks under the admonishment.

“Apologies Mrs Fenwick,” Molly replies, her hand grabbing his arm. With surprising strength, she tugs him into the house, shutting the door, giving a wave to the disapproving neighbour. “Sorry!”

She turns on him, and all argument fades from her face. He chuckles, the chuckle becoming a full-blown laugh.

“Shut up,” she says, throwing herself forward and wrapping her arms around his neck. He catches her with ease, letting his laugh fade as he kisses her. She eyes him when they pull apart.

“Did you really have to lecture me about my marking on my doorstep?”

“I came over earlier, noted your delightful Mrs Fenwick hadn’t fallen asleep yet.” Sherlock shrugs. “A necessary precaution. As was, I assume, your pointed question about me getting hold of your address?”

“You’re not the only one concerned about neighbours. Seriously, though – Marcus is a child genius, but you’ve got to slow him down.” Molly skillfully ignores his wandering hands as she speaks, so he kisses her neck. She moans but pushes her hands lightly against his chest. “The other kids feel like morons. And I work in a school that caters specifically for child geniuses.”

“It doesn’t help that he’s got Sherlock Holmes for a father,” she adds, though her playful smile gives her away.

“I’ll talk to him. Now – shall we argue until your neighbour falls asleep or go upstairs?”

Molly answers him by grabbing his hand and leading him upstairs to the back bedroom. Removing his coat, making to remove her dressing gown, he kisses her, nibbling on her bottom lip.

“I really do have some queries about your marking, however, Miss Hooper.”

Molly unceremoniously pushes him onto her bed in reply. “We’ll discuss them later.”


	247. Support.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mizjoely asked: "meeting at a support group au". 
> 
> TW: Mentions of suicidal thoughts, drug use and addiction.

“I heard you in the meeting.”

She turns, throwing down her hoodie. The man speaking looks as broken and wrecked as she does. Everyone in that cold church hall does. They’ve all made the same bad choices.

“Did you?” she says with a withering sigh, taking his wordless offer of a cigarette.

“Couldn’t help but.” He hits her with a blue-eyed look that beds down into her bones. “Want some chips?”

She coughs on her cigarette. The smoke goes everywhere for a moment, spilling out of her mouth. She waves it away. “Chips?” She raises an eyebrow. “Why would I want chips?”

He shrugs. “No reason. C’mon, there’s a chip van behind the back of the building.”

They start walking, and for the first time, as they end up talking about Einstein’s theory of relativity, she doesn’t feel like running away to one of her safe spots, where someone can’t find her pressing the self-destruct button all over again.

The owner of the chip van silently shoves a portion of chips at both of them, the chips greasy and warm in paper bags. Molly pours salt and vinegar over hers; he slathers his in ketchup.

“How’d you end up here then?”

“Oh, I’m the old cliche,” he says, shrugging and tucking into his chips. “Shoved into a support group by a wealthy family. What’s yours?”

“Grief,” she says, trying to sound casual but her voice wobbling on the word. She focuses on the man’s blue eyes, focuses on the scent of vinegar, until the screaming voice in her head stops pleading with her to run. Somehow, she doesn’t want to let this kindred spirit beside her down. She’s let down so many people already. She can’t bare the thought of letting down another. Even if it’s a fellow addict. “Everyone matters,” her dad used to say. “Even you, bean.”

“Good chips,” she says brightly against his sudden silence.

“You’re suicidal, you deserve good chips.”

She snaps her head up.

“What?”

“You’ve got paracetamol in your bag. You’ve spent the whole day travelling from one side of the city to the other, visiting every pharmacist you can and buying a packet at each one.”

Her hand trembles. “H-how did you know?”

“Looked in your bag. You couldn’t stop looking at it when they were all fussing around with coffee and tea, and you keep adjusting your feet during the session as if they were hurting. Possibly from a large amount of walking.” His eyes flick down to her feet. “Pumps really aren’t good for London.”

She eats her chips for a few minutes, taking in his observations.

“Didn’t know I was that predictable.”

“You’re not. I’m just observant. Don’t take your life,” he says, suddenly serious. “Your life is not your own. Feels it, but it’s not. So don’t squander it.”

She stares at him and for a moment, he’s burning before her, burning with the determination that this one woman he barely knows won’t die. He could be a hero. A superhero, running about London, saving lives.

“Do me a favour,” she says finally, folding her arms over her chest, narrowing her eyes.

“Hm?”

“Do the same.”

A smile slowly creeps onto his mouth. He sticks out a hand. She shakes it, holding on tight to this man called Sherlock Holmes and hoping, somewhere deep inside her, that she’ll never have to let go. 


	248. Dinner? (Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dinnerxx asked: "long distance relationship au". Kind of canon compliant with TLD.

Sometimes, he texts her back. She doesn’t pay it much mind. It’s a game like everything is with that man, and he likes to win. No-one seems to have explained the rules of this particular game to him, however.

Irene stares down at her phone screen, raising an eyebrow at his message.

_Thank you. – SH._

Sherlock Holmes never says ‘thank you’ for anything. (It was his birthday a few days back, perhaps he’s thanking her for that?)

“Softening,” she murmurs, as she sits back on the plush sofa, kicking off her heels. Her client, tied to her bed, calls out in her sonorous Southern accent for her mistress.

“Don’t fidget,” she commands. “Or I’ll be forced to punish you." 

Her fingers swipe over her phone’s keyboard.

_You never say thank you._

_I’m feeling generous. – SH_

_Let’s have dinner._

_I’m not hungry. – SH_

_I’m ravenous._

_You’re incorrigible. – SH_

Sitting in the opulent lounge of a Senator, Irene smirks. No harm in trying again.

_Let’s have dinner._

She leaves her phone at the bottom of her bag of tricks (her clients always know never to touch that, unless they’re the brattiest of subs, but she’s selective these days and mistakes aren’t allowed). She doms the Senator for a few hours, eventually leaving them happy and cared for and blissed out. Leaving the complex and climbing into a yellow taxi, she leaves it until she’s in her apartment, situated way on the other side of the city, before she retrieves her phone from the bag. No new messages—then her phone vibrates in her palm, the screen flashes and she’s grinning.

_I lied: I’m starving. – SH_


	249. Sing Me a Song. (Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes, Pirate AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seaductress asked: "meeting in a prison au".

Blue sky and white sunlight filtered through a high barred window, settling in long thin patches on the yellow straw. Irene was stuck in stinking hay behind iron bars with nothing but a flea-ridden dog staring at her with keys dangling, an infuriating tease, from its mouth. She tilted her hat up, leaning on the bars of her cell.

“In Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty—” Her eyes slid upwards as the door to the dungeon, high above her at the top of the winding, crumbling staircase, creaked open. The standard pushing and shoving, the old insults of the ancient jailer sounded. Irene quirked an eyebrow at the silence from the entering prisoner.

“I once met a girl named Molly Malone…” she sang. “and she wheeled her wheelbarrow through the streets broad and narrow, singing cockles and mussels alive alive oh—”

The ancient jailer’s hand slammed against the bars of her cell, his other still holding the chain of the shackles of the new prisoner. Irene gave the prisoner a cursory glance. Tall, dark-haired, in a Navy man’s uniform. He wouldn’t be there long. 

“Shut up your singin’,” the jailer snarled to her, half-catching her attention. “You’re for the gallows in the mornin’; that’ll be the time for songs.”

Irene gave the jailer her brightest smile, leaning closer to the bars. “My voice will be the last thing you hear.”

“You keep sayin’ that. Don’t make it any more true,” the jailer replied, a nasty smile showing yellowed teeth. He tugged at the new prisoner’s chains, moving on to the next cell. The dog, hearing the jailer’s whistle, trotted over. The jailer unlocked the cell door and shoved the prisoner in, locking the door firmly behind him. Irene resumed her singing, her song changing.

“Father, father, build me a boat,” she sang softly, old words sung to her own tune, teasing as she wandered towards the bars that marked the barrier between her cell and the next. She scanned the Navy man. His dark hair was a mass of curls. There was a cut on his right cheek. “Out on the ocean, I will float… there I’ll hail each ship as I pass by… there I’ll enquire for my true sailor boy…”

“Should I pay a shilling for your song?” the new prisoner asked, his voice unexpectedly sonorous. The dungeon door slammed closed behind the jailer. Irene ceased her song and smiled.

“All my songs are free. Whoever hit you must love you.”

The stranger stepped forward, gripping onto the bars. His smirk matched his raised eyebrow, but his eyes gave away his curiosity.

“If I was hitting that face, I’d hold back too. Though I’d probably cut myself on those cheekbones of yours,” she added, laughing.

The stranger said nothing, but his eyes narrowed, seeking information. Irene kept her face blank to his scanning. “If you’re nothing more than a thief, why would they send you to the gallows?” the stranger asked suddenly, though he rapidly gave a grin, the answer already come to him. “Oh. You stole something precious – no. Something irreplaceable.”

Outside the thick walls of the dungeon, filtering through the snatches of blue sky, Irene heard the brief sound of cannon fire and commands roared. The stranger heard it too, his smirk growing. Irene looked at him, her lips thinning in thought. 

“You’re rather good.”

“You’re not so bad. Who’s rescuing you?”

Irene laughed again, withdrawing from the bars between her and the stranger. She retreated into the shadows, sitting among the hay. She lowered her hat over her eyes, lying back against the hard iron of the bars.

“You might want to sit down and look innocent,” she said to the stranger. She silently counted down. 5, 4, 3…

The dungeon slammed open and the jailer stumbled down the stone steps, falling onto the hard floor. Mary’s gun was pointed in his face, silencing any protestations he might’ve had. Irene grinned, scrambling to her feet.

“Captain,” she said happily. “Just about beat your record." 

The captain barked a laugh, whistling and clapping for the dog. Rubbing its fur affectionately, she took the keys and unlocked the cell door. 

"Would’ve been quicker but Moriarty seems to have upped his armoury since last time. I think we made him quite angry!” Molly said brightly, her long brown hair whipping towards the stranger. She jerked a thumb in his direction as Irene gathered up her things, strapping her sword and gun against her thigh.

"Who's that?"

“Someone who wants Moriarty dead, working undercover I think.” She glanced towards the stranger. “Want to come with us?”

The stranger gave a playfully sorrowful look. “Not today.”

“Pity. Was just getting used to having you around.” Irene winked as she approached the jailer, taking out her gun. She eyed the stranger. He gave a shrug.

“Not part of the plan.”

“Good.” Her gun went off and the jailer ceased to twitch and blubber.

“We all finished here?” Mary asked. “I don’t want to leave Rose with John for too long.”

“Oh cripes, yes. C'mon,” the captain ordered, running up the steps. Mary followed suit, but Irene lingered.

“Irene, we need to go!” Mary yelled, 

The stranger approached the front of his cell as she came closer. Darting forward, she kissed him through the bars.

“Think about our offer,” she said before she ran out of the dungeon, leaving the dark-haired stranger behind and running out to face the wrath of Moriarty.


	250. Sherlock Holmes: Thief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some shamefully schmoopy hurt/comfort, written post-TFP and therefore filled to the brim with feelings.

She hates Sherlock Holmes. With every fibre of her being. He is a thief. Not content with stealing her heart, without notice or cause, he wanted her words too. Maybe that’s why she stole his right back. The consequence for him, a consequence for his cruelty.

So when her phone rings again, she answers and asks a simple question, one she learned from Mary, when Mary took it upon herself to bring Molly into the fold, no longer on the fringes, in the lab sitting there waiting for the grand consulting detective to stride in, but among them, in the battlefield that is Holmes and Watson:

“Vatican cameos?”

“No,” he sighs.

She hangs up and doesn’t answer when the phone rings again.

Eventually, two days and 70 missed calls later, she gets a knock on the door of her flat. They have to knock twice before she answers. Mycroft Holmes stands in the doorway, suited and booted and looking more harrowed than she’s ever seen him. He steps inside without invitation and glances around the hallway of her flat.

“Nice place. In central London.”

“I’m a doctor.” She deserves a plush sofa to sink into of a night. She walks into the living room and does exactly that. Mycroft, following her, blinks as she retrieves a packet of cigarettes and her lighter from a drawer in the coffee table. She leans back, tucking a cigarette between her lips.

“Just one,” she says. She lights it. “Only for – um – stressful situations.”

“Understandable,” Mycroft replies, with a smugness that is more familiar than the bags under his eyes. “May I have a look at your phone?”

“In the kitchen. Keeps ringing,” she says softly as Mycroft leaves. He re-enters with her phone between his fingers, casually flipping it over and over in his hand. His thumb swipes over the screen.

“I’ve got a lock code on that.”

“You’re right handed and your phone still feels cumbersome in your hand. You are still attached to your father, despite his death; in fact, you’re attached to him as a result of his death, so it stands to reason that, yes – the code is four digits, the year your father died and the age of which he died.” Mycroft presents the open phone to her, his words barely sparks on her armour and scrolls through the listed of missed calls. “And you have 70 missed calls.”

The phone vibrates in his palm. The name flashes up on the screen. Mycroft lets it ring out. The ringtone is harsh and clear.

“71. My mistake,” he says silkily. The ringing stops.

“His first call of the day?”

“He knows I lie in on weekends,” she says, tone bitter. More and more she feels like a sulking child denied of too many sweets.

The phone drops onto the coffee table with a clatter. Molly closes her eyes, breathing in each second of silence that passes.

“It was a game. A game that John, I and Sherlock were all forced to play. I won’t go into too much detail.”

“Passing the buck?”

“Obeying a request, actually. There’s a car waiting.” Her phone beeps. “Oh, and you have a text now.”

She grabs the phone before Mycroft can pick it up, and holds it to her chest. Calling is impersonal. Texts are an – they’re an intimacy. However cold and clinical the language, it’s him and it’s always something that, even when she’s had a bad day of bratty first years sniggering around an autopsy table, makes her heart inch up just a little. (It does even now when there are a fury and anger and a bitterness in her body that she can’t yet define.)

She glances at the text.

_You know where to find me. SH_

“No.” A long silence precedes her answer. She rises to her feet, straightening her shoulders and looking Mycroft Holmes square in the eye. “He wants to explain, he comes here. He comes to me.”

She’s safe here; she isn’t safe among the ruined walls of Baker Street. There she might realise the impact this game has had and she might come dangerously close to forgiving him.

Mycroft’s eyes flit over her, a computer scanning, and he gives a thin smile. A single low nod.

“Very well.”

He departs from the living room and isn’t back for a long while. She ends up pacing and then ends up making herself coffee. She’s lost the taste for tea.

The kettle boils as the front door to her flat opens and a gust of winter wind comes. Toby, sitting on the stairs, meows and shoots upstairs. Mycroft isn’t the arrival. She wouldn’t have got out the second mug (an automatic motion) if he was.

“Black, two sugars,” she recites.

Sherlock gingerly takes a step forward. A glare from her stops him in his tracks. She bites on her tongue to stop herself apologising, to stop herself explaining that if he comes any closer, she’ll be forced to see something else other than her anger and this is the one time in her life she’s allowed herself to be selfish. It’s the worst she’s ever felt. She can’t let him see that.

Molly makes the coffee for the both of them and hands his coffee to him without letting their fingers touch. She used to hold the coffee cup with both hands, one at the handle and one cradling its body, even at its hottest temperature, because she knew he’d have to brush the pads of his fingers against her knuckles. She’s always had a knack for taking the smallest thing and making it bigger than it actually is.

She returns to the worktop, picks up her own mug and blows on the hot liquid. She stirs it, metal clattering against china.

“You were forced to play a game?” she asks, trying to keep her tone light. Light and bright, that’s familiar territory. Sherlock nods.

“I have a sister.” Heavy tone, delivering blunt truths. That’s his familiar territory. She wonders how she thought they ever could’ve worked. They’re on different planes of life. Her, her little dead centre of town. Him, his bustling city of cases and clients sitting on chairs. Sherlock swallows and sips from his coffee. His nose wrinkles but the snatch of light fades quickly. “Eurus. She’s a genius. Much cleverer than me, than Mycroft. She got taken away when she was a child. I purposely forgot her because she killed my best friend. Out of jealousy, it seems I didn’t play with her enough. She’s been locked up in a remote facility for years by Mycroft. She escaped, then she led us back to the facility. To Sherrinford. To play a game.”

This is his world he’s describing. This Sherlock Holmes world where arch enemies exist and genius sisters are locked away for fear of what they’ll do to the world. It’s terrifying, confusing but, as she sips at her coffee and listens, she starts to realise why she ever daydreamed about being a part of it.

“What kind of a game?” she asks blankly.

“Experiments. That tested my emotional reasoning against my deductive reasoning. Mycroft failed the first. John failed the second. I passed both.”

“Was I the second?”

“You were the third.”

Her bottom lip trembles and she bites on it until she fears she might draw blood.

“We were presented with a coffin. It was my job to deduce who it was for.”

She wipes at the corner of her eyes. Her armour is strong against Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, but when Sherlock is around—her heart beats on and beats on for him, clanging and crashing against armour which is somehow, suddenly, brittle to the touch.

“My life was at risk, so you forced me to say something that was true.” She spits out the last word, throwing an accusatory glare at him.

“It was a code for explosives hidden in your flat. And I couldn’t let you know of the danger. I couldn’t tell you where I was, I… If I didn’t say it, Molly, if – you – didn’t say it, I was led to believe that you – you would die.”

His look is pained, hurt shining in his eyes. Her fury bubbles up, up and up and up until she callously shrugs.

“So you got me to say it. I didn’t die. You passed. You—” her breath shakes and she curls her fingers into her palm, squashing it down, “won.”

“I lost.”

That pounds against her chest. A crack appears in the brittle armour, splitting a line down through her breast.

“You fulfilled the conditions of the experiment. You got me to say it. I lived.” Another catch in her breath, another break in her voice. A knife edge. “You won.”

“No. No, Molly. I lost. The experiment wasn’t – there were never any bombs in the flat.” His own voice shakes, and a dark part of her without hope wonders if that’s an act too. “You were never in harm’s way.”

“You know that makes it ten times worse, don’t you.” She leans her back against the worktop, pressing her hands to her forehead. She lets out a heavy breath, her arms sinking back down to her sides. “It was for nothing. You forced me to say something that was true, I forced you to say something that wasn’t true and it wasn’t even—”

Real. The stakes weren’t even there. She could’ve forgiven him immediately if there was a danger. If he was forced to be the gallant hero on a noble steed. It’s such a ridiculous thought, Sherlock Holmes charging up on a white horse to save her, Molly Hooper the maiden that she giggles. It feels strange and high, a weird relief on the weight inside her chest. The giggle chokes in her throat and becomes a cough, the cough is now a cry, an explosion of every piece of hatred she’s felt since that phone call.

She screams halfway through the cry, desperately wiping away tears that won’t stop.

“It’s you, it’s _always_ you,” she snaps. “You bastard. You bastard—”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not sorry! How do I know you’re sorry? How do I know Mycroft isn’t going to charge in here with a team of suits to disable bombs? How do I know that this isn’t some fucked up way of you trying to comfort me because sentiment’s a disadvantage and it’s better for me to believe you never meant a word!” He reaches out to her but she hurries back, shaking her head. “No, no – don’t touch me—”

“The lie was real!”

He roars at her, those four words, and she stills. Her hand covers her mouth, her fingers softly brushing over her bottom lip as she takes him in. He breathes heavily, a weight lifted from his chest. His eyes are damp, wet even, wet with tears. She half-wonders how long he’s been on the brink. As long as her?

“Emotional context. Anyone can say ‘I love you’. It’s bandied around so much, it doesn’t really mean anything anymore. I mean, it’s said without context, every second. But Eurus gave me context. She presented me with a coffin that would fit you perfectly. She threatened your life. She threatened me with the idea of a world in which you didn’t exist.”

She shakes her head. Her realisation pounds inside her head, over and over. “You only said it because I told you to. I couldn’t bear not hearing you say it back.”

“Why?” His curious frown is kind, patient. Not seeking data, but helping her. “Why couldn’t you say it without hearing me?”

“I love you, Sherlock. Not your lifestyle, not the cases. That’s thrilling, intriguing, amazing – but I love you. For God’s sake, you could be some sad old sap keeping bees in a remote cottage and I’d still feel the same way. Can’t feel that deeply about someone without wanting to pretend just once.” She voices her realisation in a soft murmur as if she can’t believe it herself. She ends giving a small, sad smile. She returns to her coffee, taking a sip and laughing to herself. “Pathetic.”

“It’s not pathetic. What’s pathetic is not realising the truth until it’s laid out in the shape of a coffin.”

She blinks. “What?”

His trademark smirk, the one she loves despite herself, returns to his lips. “Now are you prepared to listen? What I said was a lie. The sentiment, however, is the truth. I only realised it when Eurus gleefully informed me there were no bombs, and you were actually perfectly safe. My emotional attachment to you blinded me to the most obvious deduction. And I ended up hurting you in the process. To know that I had done that – evisceration of the worst kind.”

“I believe you.” She doesn’t know she’s said the words until they register in her head, along with the soft timbre of her voice. She reaches up, sliding her hand against his cheek. “I just… I wish—”

His fingers gently hold her wrist. “I know.”

Of course, he knows. She believes him, but the pain is still there. Hearing his voice, her voice, both protesting she isn’t an experiment. She can’t fall into his arms and kiss him, pretending everything is alright again. She exposed herself as more than a girl who happened to have a silly crush. It was an easy mask to hide in, containing only a grain of the truth, and it’s been stripped away.

She reaches up onto tiptoe, but he still has to bend his head slightly for her to kiss his cheek, his temple. In return, he kisses her forehead.

“You know where I am.”

“I know where you’ll be,” she replies. He thanks her for the coffee and leaves, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

**Six months later**

She has no missed calls on her phone. She has no unread texts, still to be answered. She wears a blouse and her cherry print cardigan and her work trousers. She has her hair up, and she’s on a bus on her way home from work. She flips her phone over and over in her hand, holds her bag with the other. Lifting her head, she gazes out at London. 

The complicated streets which were burned down and rebuilt centuries ago, condemning teenagers to experience long history lessons about the danger of building homes too close to one another. The streets now teem with people. All with problems solved and yet to be solved. Perhaps even problems they don’t know of yet, but all of them seeking solutions. That final piece of the puzzle.

Sometimes they find it in work, in a family, in children. Her dad found it in stamp collecting, though he always professed his family his first love. 

Behind her two students eagerly discuss politics, talking about Corbyn and Labour and the Conservatives. That’s another place where solutions can be found. Debate. Argument. Some people are never happy until they’re arguing.

She gets off the bus and walks the last few streets, enjoying how quickly the streets change. One street lined with gastro pubs and high-class restaurants sits next to a street where a tiny little café charges extra because it can. It’s in a prime spot after all.

She knocks on the door next to the café, and she’s welcomed with a smile. She heads up the stairs, making room for a departing Greg, who looks stressed as ever. 

As Greg heads down the stairs, muttering to himself and shaking his head (only a man truly content in his life does that, her father said once), she steps into Baker Street already smiling. John plays with his daughter. Sherlock— _Unc’_ according to Rosie—stands by the fireplace. She waves.

“Hello,” she says, grinning at Rosie who lights up and points.

“‘olly!”

Sherlock meets her as she walks in. He ducks down and kisses her forehead, letting the gesture linger.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hello,” she says, and she hugs him close. This is real. It will continue to be real, and this, above everything, is her family.


	251. Cake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> introspectivenavelgazer prompted: "Someone left the cake out in the rain". Set pre-s1 and Molly's amazing kitchen we see in TFP. Slightly Mature rating.

The door rattles against the sound of the knocker. Thunder rumbles overhead. Molly sighs, rubbing her palm against her temple and yawning as she plods down the narrow hallway. Rain spatters on the overhead windows, the permanent draft whistling around her sock-covered feet. Above her, lightning flashes. She tampers down a shiver. Childish fear, which she’s over well enough. Well, enough not to hide her covers and count to ten.

She opens the door. A familiar figure stands before her, furiously soaked with a bent square of cardboard, a box in other words, in his hands.

“Why can’t you live on the ground floor?” he growls, pushing past her. She rolls her eyes, locking the door closed, glancing out for her nosy neighbour. The concrete corridor is empty, rain spattering on the edge of the walkway, minute shelter coming from the final floor.

“Could’ve got a taxi,” she mutters. He doesn’t hear her, or in his current mood, at least pretends she isn’t speaking. He remembers himself enough to hang up his coat and scarf. 

He rolls up his sleeves, picking up the bent box and heading through the splintered door to the rectangular kitchen, the height of modernity when it was built. She’s been allowed to get rid of the horrible patterned wallpaper, thank God.

“What’s the box for?” she asks.

“What’s the date?” he asks in reply, the question obviously more for her benefit than his. She answers with a challenging smile.

“It’s still a week away, you clot. Guessing this is a last minute purchase,” she says, still smiling and opening the box. Her smile twitches with the threat of a delighted gasp. He’d switched the boxes, the bastard. Made it look plain and lumpen so she wouldn’t guess what was in it.

“A new hypothesis, Dr Hooper?”

“Don’t tease me,” she says, swatting the arms that ‘mysteriously’ have wrapped themselves around her waist. She feels his damp clothes press into the back of her dressing gown. “Where’d you get the money for this?”

A wariness edges her voice, which he cannot blame her for. He’s earned it. He starts to sigh, to snap off a curt answer, but he pauses. He settles for tucking his chin against her neck.

“I owe a favour to Mycroft.”

Molly examines the cake inside the deceitful box. She sends him stuff occasionally; only when something takes her eye. Strolling through London, neck aching from bending over a desk, she’d taken a snapshot of the best-kept secret in their city. An apricot and almond cake, sweet to taste, made by a bakery he’d sniffed at and called ‘quaint’ when he’d seen the photo. Her idea of a compliment, his idea of a condemnation. (A compromise.)

She reaches up, finding his cheek. Her palm slides underneath his jaw, caressing his skin with the pads of her fingers. He hums at the touch, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.

He pauses.

“You just shivered.”

“A compliment?” she says, glancing up and turning her head towards him. He lifts his head. Lightning flashes, following the loud rumble of thunder. His peering, curious frown, finishes scanning her, lightening with the answer. She shakes her head.

“I’m not.”

“Molly.”

“It’s just – just a kid thing.” She shrugs. “I’m fine.”

Sherlock’s arms leave her waist. His hand slips easily into hers. His other gently shuts the box.

Sighing, she turns to face him.

“I’m fine,” she repeats. “Honestly, Sherlock.”

“I’m going to be gone for two weeks. I wanted you to have something early.”

“Your efforts are appreciated,” she says, feeling his thumb brush over her palm.

“I’m quite glad I made the effort to get it here.” His eyes flit towards the window. “That storm is horrendous. Don’t you agree?”

She glares at his playful look. Wriggling her hand from his hold, she returns to her bedroom. “I’m fine,” she calls over her shoulder, shutting her bedroom door. 

Shrugging off her dressing gown, she hangs it on the back of the door and slides into her cold bed, shivering against the cold sheets. The bucket in the corner of the room spits and spatters with sounds of the leak the landlord’s too lazy to fix. (She doesn’t dare ask Sherlock to repair it; she doesn’t want to think of the bomb site she’d end up living in.)

He follows her moments later and crouches by the bed. He has his curious look on again. His hand gently brushes through her hair.

“Thunderstorms are a perfectly normal thing to fear. Scientifically at least. Lightning has proved—”

“Oh Sherlock, don’t. Sorry,” she adds quickly. “I just – when you’re scared of thunderstorms, you don’t particularly want to hear about people being killed by lightning.”

“Really?”

She sighs and closes her eyes. “Just – keep stroking my hair? It’s… well… nice.”

“Hm. I suppose I can do that,” he says blankly, with a snatch of amusement. She smiles at his tone.

As she’s halfway into sleep, he leans forward and kisses her temple.

“Happy birthday, wife.”

“It’s not for another week,” she mutters.

“Research indicates early celebration is better than letting the day pass by unnoticed.”

“You need to stop reading women’s magazines,” she mutters into her pillow, grinning. He clearly notices her grin, because he chuckles.

“You’re not an average example of 'woman’, Molly. Not if all those magazines are to be believed.”

“If they are, I’m supposed to be blonde with either no tits or massive ones.”

“Your tits are fine. They do, after all, stimulate me well enough that I can climax without issue.”

“That’s the worst chat-up line I’ve ever heard,” Molly replies, giving up on sleep and rolling onto her back. She glances to her husband, the curls of his hair still stuck to his nape and his clothes drying in patches against his body. She pats the empty side of the bed. “C'mon,” she sighs softly.

She happily watches him undress, his pale skin and toned body quickly revealed. He moves naturally around the room, neatly folding his clothes over the three warm radiators (the reason she prefers sheets to a duvet and chose this flat in the first place). He slides into bed beside her, drawing her close to his naked body. His feet stick out from underneath the sheets, over the edge of the bed. She giggles at the sight.

“Well you’re short,” he grumbles, hiking her closer. She rolls onto her side and kisses him soundly, her breasts pressing up against his chest. His hands find their way to her hips, caressing the path down towards her backside. 

“You need a better bed,” he growls in frustration after a few minutes of awkward kissing, their two bodies even too much for this not-quite-a-double bed. “And a bigger kitchen, as a matter of fact. That one you’ve got doesn’t deserve your cooking.”

“When I get a job, I promise a better bed and bigger kitchen are at the top of the list,” she says with a laugh, kissing and nibbling lightly on his collarbone. He hisses at the pleasure, cupping her backside and tweaking her nipple. She yelps, and he smiles.

“How’s the detective thing working out?”

“Much better than being the supervising manager of – where was it?”

“I’ve no idea. I just know it didn’t suit you.” Sherlock Holmes, her husband, was never suited to a normal job. “I miss the bed at your old flat, though.”

“Hm. I’ve been looking at flats,” he muses, voice hitching at the path of kisses she lays on his chest and torso. He slides one hand down her pyjama bottoms, between her thighs. She moans against his skin and spreads for him. “There’s one with some potential. Remember that case in Florida?”

“The drug dealer?”

“His widow has a flat she needs to let. Willing to give me a deal. Would still need a flatmate, however.”

She pauses, her eyes flicking up to him. He shrugs in answer to her question. She shakes her head.

“Kind of gives the game away, doesn’t it? If we’re living together.”

“Don’t even know why we’re bothering to keep this a secret. Your neighbour’s already worked it out. Or at least has a suspicion.”

“No, she just thinks you’re a prick. I’ve complained enough about you,” she adds, grinning at his frown. He settles back on the pillows with a hum.

“You think of everything. Why are we keeping this a secret, by the way?”

“Because we kept it a secret during university and never bothered stopping? _Oh_ ,” she gasps as his lazy ministrations between her thighs suddenly become a lot more determined.

“Sounds about right. My disinclination to look at anyone else helped, I’m sure.”

Molly laughs at her husband, a soft intimate sound and kisses him. “I like it this way,” she says. “And thank you for the cake.”

“You’re welcome, wife.”

He never says 'I love you’. Simply says 'wife’. If he ever said 'I love you’, if she ever said it back—it would make this real, instead of the delicious, dizzying dream state that it is. An impulse, to get married after knowing one another only a few months. They’ve made it two years now, with only three people on the planet knowing. Her, him, his brother Mycroft. They can make it a few more years, surely.

Sherlock’s ministrations, deepening again, and a hungry kiss from him distracts Molly from her thoughts. Cupping his neck she kisses him back and loses herself until she can hear nothing but his voice in her ear and the thunder is another reality.


	252. Making Herself at Home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny post-TFP drabble, inspired by that yellow armchair and the new set of drawers we see at the end of the episode when Molly enters the flat, all beaming and definitely made up with Sherlock Holmes.

“What’s that?”

“A chair. Armchair, if you want to be specific.”

“It’s – um – nice. Bit unexpected.”

“That corner of the room looked empty.”

“Well,” John sighs, “never took you for interior design.”

“Molly needed her own chair.”

“Molly? Why – why should she need her own chair?”

“… No reason.”

“Are those a new set of drawers as well?”

Sherlock lifts his newspaper closer to his face. “None of your business.”


	253. To Be Truthful. (Jane Eyre AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> colorblindly suggested a Jane Eyre AU where Eurus took the place of the mad wife, being the mad sister in the attic instead.

“How is your charge, Mrs Watson?“ 

The blonde woman was up on her feet in an instant, her eyes scanning the growing number of people in the room.

“Calm at the moment, but we did have a moment this morning,” she said, glancing towards a breakfast table. 

A thin figure sat at it. Long tangles of black hair fell down past her shoulders. Her fingernails were cut back until they were blunt. A violin and its bow, well-used, stood in the cradle of an armchair. Every item in the sparse room was carefully arranged, spacious despite the cramped area.

“I’d suggest caution, sir,” Mrs Watson added. Her harrowed look, contrasting so easily with her usually bright demeanour, seemed an answer to me now, rather than a puzzle. I found more answers in the grey walls, marked by brushes of red. Fingerprints in the pattern. The red scarf blew from the window.

My betrothed gave a dry smile. “Aren’t I always?” He glanced towards his brother, who looked pale as he stared at the thin, black-haired figure. Mycroft looked at him in return, swallowing.

“We need to leave.”

“You wouldn’t think it, would you?” A nasty bitterness found Sherlock’s voice. “My brother, terrified of his own sister. Eurus.”

“Sherlock—” Mycroft replied, with that reprimanding tone. My eyes remained on the black-haired figure. It seemed wrong to give her a name. She was more than a name; bigger than the body that contained her.

“I that am lost, oh who will find me, deep down below…” She was singing. The lullaby was soft, sung in the voice of a child. The figure lifted her head. Ice-blue eyes, the shade of her brother’s. She took in every single last person. Her song continued.

“The old beech tree… Help succour me now, the East Winds blow—” The tune stopped with a tilt of her head. Her eyes narrowed. “Have you had sex?”

She spoke brashly, harshly. I remembered tantrums by children, uncontained by harsh rules. I remembered standing for a night and day, the wooden sign heavy around my neck. The rope had burned into my neck. My spine felt sore. I had walked slower than the others and had earned the punishment for it.

The figure’s soft blue eyes hardened.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Eurus—”

What happened next, I struggle to remember. I have dreamed of it, in patches and scraps, but they are always disjointed as if they come from someone else’s life. A tragedy that befell someone else. On those nights, I wake, my mind expecting to find me living the consequences of another path. On those mornings, I sit quietly at breakfast and ignore the wordless questioning of my new companions, thanking them only, as always, for their kindness in keeping me.

The full narrative comes back to me with the slamming of a door. I see him, my betrothed, with scratches of blood on his cheek from blunt nails. _Don’t worry_ , she’d murmured with clearness in her eyes, _I’ll be finished with him in a minute_.

“There’s the truth.” Those are the words that bring the memory to the front of my mind. If they are there for a moment, I find myself playing the narrative to its end. Sherlock looking to his pale-faced brother. “As you wanted, Mycroft.”

Sherlock sighed, slowly walking forward, every step a jerk, as if the movements pained him. He sank into the sofa where his brother had once laid, teeth marks in his chest.

“She is cleverer than all of us. Able to see things in a way that no-one else ever can. Everything to her is a construct. A way to play the game. My parents locked her away in an asylum, fearing what she could do. When they died – I always knew the asylum would ruin her – make her worse than she ever had been. I hoped, when I removed her, that her mind had been preserved. I brought her here, back to Musgrave – for a while, it seemed she was getting better. But it was as I feared. She was worse than I ever thought.” Sherlock returned to his feet. It was as if he could not find a place in this room, as long as his sister wailed and screamed his name. “It was suggested that I keep her elsewhere. The second home. The damp would’ve taken her. Rid us both of the burden.”

An awful quiet fell between the four of us. Mycroft shared a glance with his lawyer, whose protesting voice I sometimes still hear. _This marriage cannot go ahead._  All at once, I knew who had suggested that possibility. Sherlock shook his head. A sick, dry smile came to the corners of his mouth, along with a sardonic laugh.

“I could have done just that. No-one would’ve known, and no-one would’ve blamed me. No, I just left her here, in Musgrave. With no-one but a maid to keep her company. Travelled the world instead, trying to escape the horror that sat waiting for me at home. Until one day. When a girl appeared. A girl, who knew nothing of what had surpassed. This girl,” he hissed. Every time I tell this story to myself, I feel the same thing. A needle, white hot, sinking past the barriers of silk that had been my armour and pricking at my heart. “This girl, who stands quietly and gravely at the mouth of hell. Who offered her friendship to me without question, or judgement. Quietness, sanity and innocence. You wonder why I want her. Why I lied? Why I risked the wrath of God to have her?”

Sherlock swallowed. Mycroft’s eyes fell on the closed door. She still screamed. The dark-haired figure in the nightgown with a red scarf at her window.

Sherlock’s shoulders sank forwards. He turned the key in the lock.

“I need to ask you to leave,” he said. “I have to attend to my sister.”

The narrative ends there. I remember what happened after; mumbled words between Mycroft and his witness. Sherlock’s look. He had looked at me with every pain he’d tried to hide, every word we had exchanged meaningless as his sister begged for him to return. I turned from the mouth of hell.


	254. Someone Who. (Star Wars AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cooked up an AU once, where Molly was the hotshot pilot of the Millenium Falcon trying to talk or fly her way out of a sticky financial situation with a Wookiee at her side, John was the farm boy waylaid on his quest to visit Tosche Station for some power converters by a galactic war and Sherlock was the diplomatic Prince of Alderaan, who no-one ever believes to be a diplomat because who in the hell would send Sherlock Holmes to negotiate?
> 
> miabicicletta encouraged the thoughts of this AU and... well... the following happened. BLAME TFP, BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH'S ACTING, STAR WARS, CARRIE FISHER, HARRISON FORD, AND BASICALLY ANYONE ELSE BUT ME. This could be a thing in future. I don't know. Don't hold me to that.

It started with a planet of ice and snow, and it ends now. With heat on her face, steam clouding her vision. The shackles are heavy. Heavier boots rattle on the metal grates.

“What if she dies? She’s valuable to me.”

“The Empire will compensate you,” Vader says, mechanical voice like a tomb. She bites her tongue as Boba comes into her line of sight, finding the ideal spot to watch his bounty captured. She hasn’t thought of death. You don’t get time to think of the consequences when you’re busy running away from them. She closes her eyes, lowers her head. She’s dodged one too many blaster bolts; those consequences pile up, and she has to be ready to face them.

That’s the thing they won’t take from her. Her strength. Boba will have his bounty or his money, but she can go to this knowing her strength held out to the last. She wouldn’t know how to cope if that collapsed underneath her. When she’s been wounded, battered, left for dead and danced on its edge, all she’s had is her strength.

A pained roar shoots straight into her body. Her lip quirks in a smile. And Chewie. She always had that Wookiee, with his crossbow. Dragging her away from fights, brawls, scraps, shrugging off his own wounds to look after her. She opens her eyes. Chewie roars and roars, Threepio at his back yelling and panicking. Stormtroopers try to restrain him, but they’ve pissed off a Wookiee; always a bad choice.

“Hey!” She doesn’t need the rage of a Wookiee, she needs his loyalty. Chewie roars again, more painful than the last. “Chewie, listen to me! Please!”

Chewie calms, but whines, a snatch of a growl from the mellowed Wookiee. Molly raises her hands, shackled as they are, to hold his forearm. She wordlessly pleads with him.

“I’ll be fine. You know me.” She gives a flick of a grin. “You’ve just gotta look after – look after—”

Her eyes stray towards the figure at her friend’s side. The white robes of a Senator, long gone. Now he wears black, the garments of a rebel. A warrior. (She’s loved him for longer than that. From the moment he shot that damn grate out with John’s blaster if she’s honest.)

“You have to look after Sherlock,” she says with clarity, her eyes still on the heir to the legacy of a planet destroyed by the Empire. She gives a half-smile, out of habit, to show him she’s okay. That she’ll be okay, even though she’s not sure at all if she’ll be alive in the next moments.

 _You don’t like princes?_ He’d smirked and she’d half-heartedly hated him, caught in the confines of machinery.

 _I like nice men_ , she’d retorted.

 _I’m nice men_ , he’d said. Her breath had hitched, a protest on her tongue, he’d kissed her. She’d kissed him back, her fingers in her hair and finally felt like she’d found a home.

Her hands are still on Chewie, calming him, as Sherlock kisses her now. He kisses her with a desperation that she returns with a farewell. _Afraid I was going to leave without a goodbye kiss, were you?_ She smiles against his mouth at the memory, hoping he feels it too—then it’s over, the Stormtroopers grabbing her by her arms and pulling her back to the centre of the chamber, towards the carbonite. Her consequence. 

Ugnaughts undo her shackles, check the machinery. Everyday, mundane actions. No malice, just obedience to the dark presence in the room. The Stormtroopers watch, blasters drawn on Chewie and Sherlock. She remembers first seeing the prince of Alderaan, the mission a farmer and a man who spoke of religion as if it existed had given her. The Force, linking all souls together, through every universe and galaxy. She didn’t believe a word. She couldn’t afford to.

_Come on runaway, in!_

_If we live through this_ , she’d said with a secret smile, knee-deep in the stench of a trash compactor, _remind me to thank you._

Watching Sherlock, feeling the blank eyes of the Stormtroopers and Vader, the presence of Boba, she allows herself the luxury of believing. That somehow, she is linked to this man, this infuriating man, that his soul can feel hers. A shiver of a fear, that doesn’t feel like her own, dances down her spine. She sees a face, a stern face with blonde hair and blood at his lip. She blinks the vision away.

“I love you.” He says it with realisation, like pieces of a puzzle cube cracking and clicking together.

She gives a soft, gentle smile. She’s not going to this fate without letting him know what he needs to.

“I know.”

Relief, for a moment, flickers in his eyes. Then there’s a creak, clouds of steam billowing up from the ancient machinery, and the platform descends. She looks up, through orange heat, and finds Sherlock’s green-blue eyes, impassive to anyone else. His pain is as audible to her, and her alone, as Chewie’s final roar. She keeps smiling as the carbon hits her. She has one final memory to give before the darkness.

 _Have anything to say before I leave, Your Highness?_ she’d said, surrounded by corridors of ice.

 _I doubt I’d ever have anything to say to you_ , he’d retorted, already storming off, _runaway._

* * *

 

**One year later**

Unbearable heat. A heat that feels like clouds of wet steam, clinging to her skin. A heat that crawls over her body like rats, their teeth scraping and gnawing at her flesh. 

She hears a thud, cold overtaking the suffocating heat. She shivers, her whole body trembling, at the sudden icy temperature. An ice planet—she feels the ground underneath her palms. Stones, dirt and sand. Sweat trickles down her cheeks and temple, soaking her clothes. A stench of drink and food and flesh fills her nostrils. She blinks. The darkness is still there. Her breaths shortening. Her head swims.

“Relax, relax.” The voice is unrecognisable, gnarled and throaty, foreign despite her travels. Running— she’d always been running—

“The carbonite,” the voice explains. “You’re free. You’re free.”

Orange, heat, steam. Vader. Boba.

“It’s hibernation sickness,” the voice says. “The blindness won’t last. You’ll be better, soon.”

“Where—” She chokes on the question. Hands hold her arm and her back, sitting her up. She waves her hands, trying to feel for something in the darkness.

“Jabba the Hutt’s palace. Come on, we have to go.”

“I can’t – I have to—” Her fingers trace over something, spikes of teeth. She shudders. “Who – are you?”

“Should’ve thought that obvious,” the voice replies. A hand runs through her damp, tangled hair.

“Why are you helping me? Who are you?” she repeats, her voice shaking, but growing insistent.

There is silence. A hand remains at the small of her back, holding her close to a chest. She can feel their warmth. Despite the danger, she briefly loses herself in it, a small break from the cold of Jabba’s palace.

She hears the small thud of a helmet land in the sand and dirt. A gloved hand threads into hers. The hand brings hers to a cheek. She strokes the line of the cheek, feels the high bone. The sharp jaw.

“Someone who loves you.”

She gasps, gulping down the sound. Relief coursing through her bones. 

“Sherlock.”


	255. Music for the Soul. (Sally Donovan/Mycroft Holmes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> introspectivenavelgazer asked "two miserable people meeting at a wedding au". Shades of Sherlolly in this, set a couple of years post-TFP.

Molly Hooper-Holmes, once just Hooper, had chosen sweet pea flowers for her bouquet. Just like her. Unconventional, unexpected and accidentally against the grain. The whole reception, without banners and tablecloths but hard wooden tables that would look more at home in a science laboratory, more sweet pea flowers stuck into cut glass beakers. Napkins folded into shapes of swans.

On the dance floor, the once ice-cold Sherlock Holmes had his arms wrapped around his wife and his chin tucked against her neck. Classical music, not the struggling choices of a cheap DJ, filled the reception. As before. Unconventional. Unexpected. Against the grain.

At least the champagne was normal. Sally gulped back her second glass, cracking her neck as she leant back in her chair. Underneath the bench table, she kicked off her high heels.

“One dance, Mycroft, it’s traditional—”

The universal wheedling voice of a drunk aunt came from a short distance away. This being half a Holmes affair, though, this drunken aunt had a plum in her mouth. Every slurred, amused vowel was rounded with trained eloquence. Sally listened for a while, amused by the contrast.

“Excuse me, aunt. My brother needs me.”

Sally glanced to Sherlock, who was staring doe-eyed into his wife’s eyes. Or as ‘doe-eyed’ as a Holmes could get. Their version of ‘doe-eyed’ seemed to be matched by a simple mortal’s look of fair interest.

Sally turned to look over her shoulder. The plum-tongued aunt toddled off towards the open bar (nothing the wealthy loved more than an open bar). The approaching figure, Mycroft Holmes, had only ever been a voice on the end of the line. A cool instruction here and there, sticking its nose where she very much didn’t want it. Whenever they’d made a breakthrough with Sherlock, got him to at least obey certain boundaries, there came Mycroft Holmes, coolly waving his sword about and allowing his brother free reign of the whole of London.

It was a special kind of man who created resentment while being entirely faceless.

Though it was an extraordinarily ordinary kind of man who ignored her glare towards him and continued to walk straight over. His hands in his pockets, Mycroft Holmes tilted his head at her.

“My aunt is a persistent woman, hell-bent on obeying the traditions of – marital ceremonies – which includes dancing with her nephew and bothering him with entirely irrelevant questions about his current social life.” His eyes narrowed. “Though why I feel the need to impart this to you, I’m unaware.”

Sally chuckled. “So am I.”

“I need a partner willing to take on a dance with me while my aunt approaches the level of intoxication where she becomes more focused on heaping praise on my brother.” Mycroft Holmes stuck out a hand. Sally drew back in surprise, blinking up at him.

“You are a plausible enough candidate for me to dance with without anyone becoming suspicious. Sherlock will assume I’m trying to escape our aunt, quite rightly on this occasion.”

“Your parents?”

“Half-asleep, shuffling their way around the dancefloor. Mother drank too much sherry,” he added. He re-offered his hand. “May I?”

“Do I have to wear my heels?”

“Our current height discrepancy won’t affect our dance. Unless you’d like to wear them for aesthetic reasons—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, I’ll dance with you,” Sally grumbled. She grasped his hand and, manoeuvring between the chairs, led him towards the edge of the dancefloor. His hand held her at her upper back, keeping her at a polite distance. A vaguely recognisable tune started to play. Sally awkwardly swayed to the music, in time with his own awkward movements, eyeing the rest of the guests. A pair of grey-haired old dears, with the happy parent smiles of seeing a child married, danced cheek to cheek with lidded eyes. Mycroft and Sherlock’s parents, as predicted. And, as predicted, Sherlock glanced up at their entry onto the dancefloor. Sally swallowed the flush of anxiety creeping up her chest, avoiding his eye and staring at Mycroft’s chest.

“Do you mind—” the high plum-tongued voice asked. 

“No!” Sally barked, whipping her head towards Mycroft’s drunken aunt. She clamped down on her bottom lip as the aunt scanned her. She sniffed and turned away, wobbling as she stormed off with a cry of well I never and I should’ve expected that.

“Sorry,” Sally said into the ensuing silence. 

“Life peers like my aunt always tend to have their feathers ruffled when they don’t get what they want.”

“If you don’t mind me saying – it’s a bit creepy, isn’t it? The way she’s going after you.”

“Are you implying something, Miss Donovan?” Mycroft’s raised eyebrow fell into a sigh, shaking his head. “She’s trying to get a bill passed and thinks I might be able to – handle it. Push it through, as it were.”

“Oh.“ She remembered that musical, Hamilton, and that song she’d been unable to get out of her head for weeks. “We dream in the dark for the most part,” she hummed. 

“Pardon?”

“Lyric. You know musicals?”

“My parents are fond,” he replied. He seemed to quantify everything by his parents. Like they were his moral compass. As they danced, Mycroft gave a theatrical shudder. “Can’t stand them. Especially that – French one.”

Sally frowned. “Les Miserables?”

The Miserables, as her mum called it.

“An overly romantic portrait of the power of the people. The world cannot be solved by singing.”

“Yes it can,” Sally retorted. She grinned at his mouth folded down into a ‘U’ shape, a clear look of total contempt. “Music can make the world go round,” she said playfully. She nodded towards the couple slinking off towards the gardens. “Bought those two together.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“It did,” Sally insisted. “Molly told me how they got together. He wrote a piece on his violin for her. Never expected him to be that sweet, actually.”

“After weeks of tiptoeing around her.”

“Huh?”

“Did you not know?”

“Not know what?” Sally asked, her eyes straying towards the gardens. Sherlock and Molly were nowhere to be seen now, having slipped off past the tree lights and braziers.

“It isn’t important. If you ask my brother, he might be inclined to fill you in.”

“Well.” There was a pain in Mycroft’s voice. A special kind of pain that Sally heard when her colleagues spoke of break-ups, difficulties with family. She cleared her throat. “I can expect the tiptoeing from him. Molly’s always frightened the shit out of him.”

Mycroft gave a dry laugh, glad for the subject change. Sally looked at up him. Their movements were less awkward now. The gap between their bodies had shrunk. “I don’t know if it was Molly Hooper herself who frightened my brother. More what she embodied.”

“Sunshine and rainbows?” Sally asked cheekily.

“Love,” he replied. He stared down at her. A smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. His eyes had softened. “He’s always held an affection for her, and our family’s never been one to encourage sentiment.”

“Really?” Sally’s nose wrinkled. She glanced towards where Mycroft’s parents had danced; but they were sat now, talking quietly between each other. She and Mycroft were the only ones remaining on the dancefloor.

“So my brother, I think, has always been ashamed by the fondness he possesses for Miss Hooper.”

“Mrs Hooper-Holmes,” Sally raised an eyebrow.

“Ah, yes. Mrs Hooper-Holmes.”

“You really think he was ashamed?”

“How could he not be? He wouldn’t have treated her so viciously, otherwise.”

Sally paused. She tilted her head. “Did you – that’s from Les liaisons dangereuses, isn’t it?”

“Just because I find musicals ghastly, does not mean I find other forms of theatre abhorrent.”

“Who’d have known?” Sally snorted. “Mycroft Holmes, secret theatre lover.”

They danced for a little longer, swaying in small circles around the floor. Her skirt floated around her ankles. His feet delicately moved around her feet, careful not to step on her toes. His hand, somehow, had slipped down to the small of her back. Sally pressed her chest against his, her cheek to his torso. His heartbeat, underneath the layers of wedding clothes, hummed and beat, a dull thrum in her ears and head. She breathed, calm. The flush of anxiety that always seemed to be her companion, was faded.

“Miss Donovan?” He murmured her name against her hair.

“Mm?”

“I’ve hit upon a problem.”

“Really.”

“The orchestra has ceased for the night.”

“So what. Don’t need music to dance.”

“I was led to believe—”

“Oh shut up and dance. It’s nice.”

He fell into silence for a while.

“It is,” he said, more to himself than her. She grinned against his waistcoat. “It is – more than nice, Miss Donovan.”


	256. Anything You Can Carry. (Rey/Kylo Ren)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZpkIPtYw01k) from Ever After. Not a prompt fill, just a whole load of silliness. Contains crack, lightsaber fights, kidnappings, and a slight bit of Kylo Ren-typical gore/violence.

She had let him go. As Snoke, an old man at the end, crumbled and fell, he’d run and she had let him go. She watched the First Order scatter into ashes. She sat in the shadows of tense meetings as General Organa’s legacy decided the next move of the Resistance. She lay awake in the dark of her rooms. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his broad shoulders hunched and his limping run as he ran into the trees.

When Admiral Statura entered her rooms, she found an odd relief in the tension in his eyes.

“We’ve a mission for you.” Rey blinked back at him. Admiral Statura cleared his throat. He seemed aware, as everyone did, of the power contained within her and her lightsaber. The Admiral shifted his weight. “We’ve received intel of Kylo Ren’s location.”

Her relief felt now like a too sweet Mandalorian orange, tasted for the first time.

“Where is he?” she asked.

“Giaca, it’s a planet out in the Unknown Regions. We need this confirmed.” Rey turned, grabbing her

Rey turned, grabbing her lightsaber and attaching to her hip. BB-8 gave a short, curt beep, quietening when she hushed it.

“He isn’t to be approached directly, you understand?" Admiral Statura added. "He’s still dangerous – he could be amassing an army as we speak – Rey?”

“I won’t approach him,” she said, standing to face the Admiral. His prematurely grey hair matched his terse expression and straight back.

Rey let out a breath, steadily holding his gaze. When he broke, she hurried past him and slipped through the doors of her rooms. She ran across the hangar out into D’Qar’s sunlight. Hurrying past the Falcon, she chose a blank supply ship, rescued from the hangars of the First Order. No-one gave the ship a second glance as it lifted into the air. Rey steadied her grip on the controls.

She’d let him go.

* * *

The grass of Giaca was soft moss, cool and dusted with dew underneath the wool of her boots. The forest was dense, thick trees gathered in clusters, green rustling overhead. Rey’s hand fell to her lightsaber as she paused against the bark of a tree, stepping into the shadows untouched by the dappled sunlight. Beyond the line of trees, the end of the forest, and an entrance out onto the lush lapping of water. Volcanic rock made up the bay before the planet’s ocean. It was a black ribbon that trailed against the edge of green grass and brown trees.

Footsteps, distant and heavy on the bay of scattered stones. Rey gulped, inching forwards.

His boots were the boots of a worker, not a warrior. His robes were gone, replaced by a hard-worn green tunic and black trousers that served to remind her of days on Jakku. A blaster sat at his right side. His dark hair was pulled loosely back into a bun. Strands of his black hair fluttered in the ocean breeze.

He turned his head, leaving his face in profile to her. Rey shrank back, but her eyes remained locked onto his form. His eyes were lidded, half-closed in thought. At the edge of his temple, she saw the beginnings of his scar.

 _Kill her,_ Snoke had snarled, standing over them both. She’d knelt, the hum and crackle of Kylo Ren’s lightsaber in her ears, the heat of it at her neck, taking her back to Takodana, its moist air and the scream of the TIE fighters. _Kill her, Kylo Ren, and complete your training._

Her promise to Admiral Statura repeated on her tongue in a whisper. She lowered her gaze. Her grip tightened around her lightsaber. She’d let him go, and there were some promises she was meant to break. She launched forward from the trees.

Kylo Ren spun up to his feet in a blur. The red crackle of his lightsaber clashed against her blue blade. Rey gasped, trembling underneath the sudden weight. Her eyes contacted his. Her lip curled into a snarl. He replied with a smirk.

“You used to be better at tailing me, scavenger.”

Before now, a planet had crumbled beneath them and made her decision for her. Rey grunted and pushed back, sliding out from underneath him, turning on her heel and facing him. He twirled his lightsaber between his fingers. His smirk widened.

“You used to be better at hiding,” Rey said, striking downwind. He blocked the blow, locking them together. His thigh slid between her legs, his body leaning close as he tilted his lightsaber against hers, edging the hilt of it close to her neck. Tilting her head, Rey arched her back, pressing herself harder against his thigh, shifting his weight with the Force within her.

She felt it again, the very thing that had awoken her and tied them to one another inexplicably. The weight of the restraints, the memory of them, pressed on her. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Out of my head,” she spat.

Without warning, Kylo stepped back from her. Without his weight, she toppled and fell onto her back. Winded, it took her enough sense to keep a tight hold on her lightsaber. Rey scrambled to sit up, catching her breath. She flicked her gaze up to Kylo. His smirk was ever wider, more an idle knowledge of power than arrogance.

“You need to learn how to obey orders, scavenger.”

Rey snapped her lightsaber against her hip. The grin finally left the former Knight of Ren as she swept her leg out in an arc, catching his ankle with her foot and sending him tumbling.

“You,” she panted, climbing up to her feet as Kylo lay on the volcanic rock, “will return to D’Qar and face trial for your crimes. Do you understand me, Ren?”

His hand shot up, fingers outstretched. Her gasp caught in her throat, turning into a choke as his power sealed her arms to her sides, the Force freezing her in place. He lowered his hand, calmly stepping up to stand over her. Rey trembled against the Force, willing herself to break it. He retaliated with a tighter grip, pulling and pulling at her lungs, her chest until she gasped.

“You’re strong, but not strong enough, scavenger.” His grip loosened, releasing her from the bind. Rey panted, glaring up at him. “Tell the Admiral his intel was luck. Tell him that I will not be found again.”

He walked up the ragged rocks of the bay, towards the thick density of trees. Rey wiped the corners of her mouth with her sleeve and watched his retreating form. _Kill her._ His red lightsaber had swung out. The head of the Stormtrooper, who once had held his blaster to her head, had rolled onto the floor before her. Snoke had knelt before her, old in the Force and his strength waning as her fury built. He’d died with her lightsaber in his chest and a smile on his wrinkled mouth.

And she’d run across the hangar, through narrow corridors, red clashing with blue, until the bright light of the trees. They’d both stopped. He’d stood at the forest’s edge. Her lightsaber, raised, she’d been ready to fight. Then he'd found her mind, she'd found his thoughts, and she'd lowered her lightsaber.

Rey sprinted forwards, but as she passed the edge into the thick copse of trees, she heard shouts in the trees, a hit to her stomach, and everything went black.

* * *

Her arms were skewed, twisted tightly to be tied around her back. Her breath was hot on her face, the coarse material of the bag suffocating. She heard rough words spoken in Basic, discussing prices for two fighters like them.

“She’s quick, could fetch a good price,” said one.

“Those outlanders will like the man,” said another. “They like brutes for their warriors.”

The bag was pulled from her head and she was shoved to her knees before a column. It was tall, thin, the basaltic rock it was carved from chipped and polished in equal measure. Beside her, Kylo dropped to his knees. He wore fury as the bag was tugged from his head. His eyes shifted, his anger focused on the one who’d spoken of him.

It was a male humanoid, muscular than any Rey had seen, tattoos covering his bare arms. His hair was a deep purple, reaching down to the low of his back. His garments were a dirtied pair of trousers and hard boots.

Rey glanced around the group. There were four of them overall, each one of them as or more muscular than the one stood before her. One, with deep red hair, combed back into a plait, kept a lookout.  Two conversed quietly with one another; they both had dark hair, their tattoos the only difference between them.

The lookout turned to his group.

“They’re coming.”

“Hell,” Kylo muttered, speaking more to himself. “Shorak slavers, selling to Peroenians. All you had to do was let me go, scavenger.”

Rey said nothing, studying the group of approaching humanoids. They were leaner than the Shorak, and as they came closer, Rey noticed they possessed six digits on each of their hands. Their hair, unlike the Shorak, was a mixture of yellow and grey, reaching down past their backs. One female stood between two males. She stepped forward, scanning Rey’s form. That same inquisitive look of the female passed over Kylo. Rey closed her eyes, gently reaching out with the Force.

The female Peroenian barked a laugh. The leader.

“I’m not a Stormtrooper,” she said with a joviality that the Shorak frowned at. She glanced to her two male companions. “This one thinks they’re a Jedi.”

Rey bristled, her jaw tightening. The Peroenian leader gestured.

“Untie them. You said they were fighters,” she said with a shrug to the Shorak’s silent question, “I want to see what they can do.”

The purple-haired Shorak crouched down behind Kylo, untying his bonds. Kylo gave a sudden, nasty grin.

“That was your first mistake.”

Immediately, he was up. His lightsaber and blaster, stuffed carelessly into the pouch at the lookout’s waist, flew through the air and landed in his palms. The red kyber crystal hummed. The purple-haired Shorak, with a twist of Kylo’s body and a flick of his blade, dropped to his knees. A deep gash streaked across his chest, exposing the innards of his body. Rey struggled up to her feet as the other Shorak set to Kylo, aiming at him with their daggers and blasters, screaming at his replying bolts and swipes.

Pressing herself up against the column, Rey wriggled her wrists against the tight bonds. Sweat burst out onto her forehead. Her eyes remained on her lightsaber, now nestled in the grass. The hard cotton of the bonds scraped against her skin, rubbing it raw. She continued to wriggle and turn her wrist every which way, easing it out from the bond. Flinging out her hand, she called to her lightsaber. It landed in her palm, cool metal against the heated pink flesh. Kylo was caught up in the fight; she could run, back into the forest, and wait for him again.

A dagger at her throat ceased all thoughts of fleeing.  

“That’ll fetch a fine price,” said the Peroenian behind her. With a laugh, their free hand clutched the lightsaber. Determination rose up within her as she felt the weight of it leave her side. She struggled in his grip.

“You’re giving that back,” she said. The Peroenian tilted the tip of their dagger closer against her throat.

“Let her go.” Rey looked up. Kylo thumbed off his lightsaber, clipping at his side. His other hand rested on his blaster. She half-wondered why he hadn’t used it on her. The Peroenian tightened their grip around her neck.

“Look at her. She’s nothing. Believe me, I’m far more valuable.”

“I shall judge that outlander,” scoffed the female Peroenian, the leader, but she glanced to her comrade. She gave a short nod. “Release her.”

Rey shoved herself away from the male Peroenian, glaring at the female leader. Her fists clenched.

“Give me my lightsaber, and the rest of my possessions, and your word that I won’t be followed, and I’ll give you my prisoner.”

Kylo scoffed into the silence. The female leader burst out a laugh.

“An entirely fair bargain," she said, "considering your prisoner has just rid the world of a few more Shorak. You may have anything you can carry.”

Rey turned, snatching her lightsaber from the male Peroenian’s hand. She passed the remnants of the fight. Reaching the dead lookout, she crouched down beside his body. She searched the pouch that lay in the grass beside him. Finding her comms, she snatched it up. She paused, glancing up over her shoulder at the female.

“Anything I can carry?” she asked.

“The Shorak may believe us liars, but I tell nothing but the truth. Anything at all,” the female leader said. Rey cleared her throat and stood up. She turned. Kylo Ren stood among four dead Shorak. Rey walked the short path towards him. She wrenched his lightsaber from his palm. Kylo frowned down at her. Rey slammed up a wall between their minds, clipping his lightsaber to the belt around his tunic.

Summoning up the Force, she pulled at his arm, pulling him to bend over as she slid underneath. Slipping her hand against his inner thigh, she held the weight of him atop of her. The Force hummed in her body, making his weight feel like nothing at all.

“Scavenger.” Kylo bit out the warning.

"Ren," she replied. Avoiding the slain Shorak, she walked past the female Peroenian. The female leader threw back her head in laughter. The males joined with her.

Rey continued to walk, Kylo on her back, until the Peroenians’ growing laughter faded.

* * *

She trapped him in a Force bind, releasing him only when her feet left the supply ship's ramp and touched the surface of D’Qar. Master Skywalker was there as she walked down the ramp.

“He approached me,” she said, dumping Kylo Ren onto the hard duracrete.


	257. How Many Times?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got into a YouTube binge of songs from the show Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, and when I listened to the song "We Tapped That Ass", my brain leapt in and went 'SHERLOCK AND TOM AND MOLLY VERSION'. I had to obey.

“Did you two do it on the sofa?” asked Sherlock, dressed in a crisp black suit with aubergine shirt. His buttons strained against his chest as he stretched.

“Mm-hm. The fireplace?” said Tom, accountant neat in a bought navy suit and jazzy striped tie, and his curls dangling over his forehead.

“In front of,” replied Sherlock. “On the rug. Wall?”

“Only foreplay.”

“Hm. Interesting.”

“Oh!” Molly stamped her foot, turning on her heel out of her living room, throwing a quick glare over her shoulder.

“Get out of my head!” she snapped.

“You put us here,” said Sherlock languidly, suddenly leaning on the stair bannister, brushing his fingers through his dark curls. He ran his other palm over the painted wood. He raised an eyebrow. “I seem to remember an occasion on the stair as well.”

“Bottom or top?” Tom called up, sat on the bottom step. Sherlock smirked.

“I believe we switched.”

“Shut up!” Molly snapped. Two glasses of wine after work, it had seemed like a good idea, but the side effect of imagining her two most significant lovers haunting her flat was decidedly adverse. “It’s bad enough you’re both figments of my imagination, you don’t need to be slut shaming me!”

She stormed up the staircase.

“Who said anything about slut-shaming?” asked a still smug Sherlock. “Do remember Molly, we are inside your head—”

Molly slammed the bathroom door shut. She caught her breath, leaning against the pine wood. Her breaths even, she went to the sink, turning on the tap. She washed her hands, humming softly to herself, dried them. A yawn came from her. Eyes flitting up to the clock above the toilet, Molly ran her toothbrush underneath the cold running stream.

“Also in here.”

“ _Ah!_ ” Her toothbrush fell into the sink with a clatter, glancing up at her reflection. Behind her stood Sherlock.

“On the floor. And underneath the shower,” he added, pointing. Molly hurried to pick up her toothbrush, furiously ignoring his words.

“I only got the bath,” Tom remarked, now lying in the empty bath, flicking through a magazine about knitting patterns. He’d glanced over it once and called her attempt at making him a scarf ‘alright’. Everything had been just ‘alright’ with Tom. “Got a bit of a bum deal, didn’t I?”

“I suspect we both did,” Sherlock mused. Molly growled, switching off the tap and storming out of the bathroom. Stamping down the landing, she burst into her bedroom. Locking the bedroom door, she squeezed shut her eyes. She clenched her fists tight.

“Raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens,” she sang underneath her breath, desperately. An earworm was better than one more minute of this. Repeating the verse over and over, she sat on her bed, wriggling out of her trousers and kicking them off into the laundry basket. Letting the song fade to a hum, she toed off her socks and pulled her hair from its bun. Her hands fell against the buttons of her blouse, undoing them with expert flicks of her wrist.

“On the rare occasion, we did do it in your bed—”

“For fuck’s sake!” Molly groaned, covering her face with her hands, falling back onto the duvet. Her half-undone blouse fluttered down her sides, exposing her bra to the cool air. Drawing her hands away from her face, she rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. “Go. Away.”

“Which was a pity,” Sherlock continued, now suddenly crawling on top of her. A lock of his curls fell down over his forehead as he brushed a stray hair behind her ear. He ran his thumb along her bottom lip. “As it was most comfortable—”

“No! No, stop it, Molly!” She shook her head, sitting up and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. Behaving like the most overzealous of teenagers. She hurriedly dropped her thumb from her lip. She closed her eyes again. “Bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens…”

A grinning Irish face popped round the doorframe. “I also feel inclined to remind you that we too, did some rather unspeakable things to one another in this house,” Moriarty drawled.

Grimacing, Molly left her bedroom and went down to the kitchen, pulling down the blinds. She made herself busy with tea, switching on the kettle.

“Brown paper packages tied up with string—”

“Definitely the island—”

“Over the sink—”

“Oh, and somewhere around or near the fridge, if I recall—”

Molly’s jaw tightened. Her breathing hardened. “These are a few of my favourite things—”

“The table!” Tom exclaimed. Molly groaned low and hard.

“Oh yes, the table, lots of memories there!” Sherlock looked at her, breaking the volley of shame he and her ex-fiance had shared in. “We can stop at any time you like, you understand.”

“Yeah,” Tom said, “no offence Molls, but singing Julie Andrews ain’t going to help.”

Molly let out a frustrated screech as the kettle boiled. “I know! I just – you two were really annoyingly creative.”

“Just thank God, or whoever is up there, that we’re not in Baker Street,” Sherlock smirked again. Wherever, whenever, however, she imagined him, he always carried traces of that smirk; even if the real life one currently looked at her like she was a wolf and he was a sheep about to be consumed. 

Tom raised an eyebrow.

“Baker Street?”

“When John was out with a girlfriend,” Sherlock explained, “and while Mrs Hudson was partaking in her ‘herbal soothers’. There was the sofa… the armchair… John’s armchair – the staircase – both staircases – the hallway—”

“Shut _up_ , Sherlock.”

“In your head!”

“No shit!” Molly laughed. She poured out a cup of tea for herself, stirring the honey and mandarin tea and letting it infuse.

“Those took me some effort to get if you remember.”

“Oh for God’s sake. You bought me tea, so what.”

“It’s only available in America.”

Molly frowned, blowing on the hot liquid. “Is it?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in return. Molly sighed, waving a hand. “In my head, I know. You only know it’s from America because _I_ know it’s from America and that it takes at least two months to get here because of customs—”

“And when exactly did my real-life counterpart deliver that tea to you?” Sherlock asked, insistently edging closer to her, with a memorable heat in his eyes. Molly shrank instinctively against the worktop, arousal pooling in her belly before she had the sense to put him on the opposite side of the kitchen island. He still had that insistent look about him.

“Two days after Sherrinford,” Molly answered. “It was a gesture. Not much of a gesture, you just shoved the box at me and ran away—”

“Oh for God’s sake Molly, stop for a moment and do what others don’t do: think. Even with my connections, I could not perform a miracle of time and get that tea sent all the way from America to the front door of your flat in two days. Conclusion?”

“You ordered the tea beforehand,” Molly said quietly. Avoiding Sherlock’s eye, she took a sip.

“It was expensive. And difficult to get. What did you get me for Christmas?”

“Can we go back to listing sex places?” Molly asked, looking wildly about for her ex-fiancé, but he seemed to have vanished from her imagination.

“Hm – oh, the landing! Not quite as comfortable as your bed.” The heat returned to his eyes.

“An antique surgical set. I thought it would fit into your whole—” she gestured vaguely, “look. Took months to come, had to chase up the seller, only arrived the evening of the party, that’s why I was late – oh you bastard!” she shouted, realising. She whirled on Sherlock, but he was gone. She was alone in her kitchen, in her bra and pants and half-undone blouse. With a warm mug of honey and mandarin tea that, despite everything, Sherlock Holmes had made sure she’d got. Just as she’d made sure he’d got that set.

The doorbell rang, and Molly ran to answer it before she could remember the state of her clothes. A whirl of cold flipped about her, bringing her attention to her bare skin and she yelped, staring into the eyes of Sherlock Holmes, flesh and blood Sherlock Holmes. She blushed.

“Wait a minute,” she said, slamming the door in his face. Quickly, she put the tea to one side.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Every step she took up her staircase was punctuated by that curse, and she sprinted into her bedroom, pulling jeans and a loose clawed t-shirt from her wardrobe. Tugging the t-shirt over her head, shoving her cold legs into the jeans, she ran back out onto the landing, doing up her flies as she sprinted back down the stairs. She wrenched open the door.

“Did you chase up the seller about that tea?”

His eyes flicked towards the mug on her side table. He gave a curt nod, folding his hands behind his back. “They said it would take another two weeks. I thought after—” he faltered, “Sherrinford – that wasn’t ideal.”

“Oh God – Sherlock – just another quick question. Tell me as quickly as possible; don’t worry about hurting any feelings. Was it real?”

“First time, no.”

“First time?” Molly racked her brain but came up short.

“I said it twice.”

“Oh.” She’d forgotten there was a first. It had all melded into one declaration, which she’d gnawed on and chewed over for a fortnight.

“Second time, yes.”

Molly supposed she should feel shocked, or bone-shaking relief, but she found herself reacting with actions instead of words. Clutching the lapels of his coat, she pulled him down as she reached up to kiss him. It was softer than she planned, their initial contact, but he soon deepened it and all at once, she was pinned to the wall, his hands on her hip and in her hair, her front door kicked closed. Molly rested her hand on his bicep, pulling away from him.

“Yes? Really, yes?”

“Always.”

Molly glanced down at his blue shirt, back up to his eyes. She bit her bottom lip. “Do you want some tea?”

Heat entered his blue-green eyes and his wolfish smile. It was a heat that shot straight through her body, made her gasp and bite her bottom lip. The heat that her mind had given to Sherlock’s eyes was a poor, poor imitation.

“Later,” he said.


	258. In Vain. (Rey/Kylo Ren, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "Pride and Prejudices and Zombies" Reylo AU nobody was asking for. Inspired by the fight scene between Elizabeth and Darcy, with a large side portion of worldbuilding, drizzled with a jus of implied Stormpilot.

IT was clear to Rey, on examination of her cousin's letters, which had been delivered that very morning and given her reason to delay her first meeting with Hux's patron, the much-lauded Lord Gaius Snoke, that her cousin was entirely determined not to criticise any part of his time on board the ship of the Royal Navy, despite the burden it presented. He spoke well, as was his character, of his peers, and of his superiors, namely Captain Poe Dameron. He was a kind character, warm, though distracted by duties when at sea, a contrast to the cheerful disposition he'd shown when he'd lived in Netherfield.

Rey glanced over the fortified window, through which cracks of light brought in the distant, muffled sounds of the countryside. Rey's heart lifted at the thought, the knowledge, that it soon would not be paper and ink that would show Finn's disposition, but Finn himself, if he made it through the Portsmouth blockade.

It had been a year, at the most, that he had been away from her, and it had been one of confusion and mess. When he had departed, to fight off the infections growing on the other side of the world, she had lived behind the fortress of the manor, hoping to last behind its strengthened walls, but such hope had not lasted.

The undead had grown cleverer by the month, the week. They'd grown in strength, in their savage cunning, until finally, day after day, London had been declared unsafe, and all bridges to it destroyed under the order of King George, save for one. The undead, it was whispered, were advantaged everywhere in battle; the only thing that saved someone unfortunate to stray into their path was their lack of speed, easily outrun by horses and carriages. The lack of speed, along with the containment of London, had enabled the wealthy to live still comfortable lives, the middle classes somewhat wary lives and warned the poor to give up all hope.

Some who were fiscally focused, right-leaning in their opinion of politics, claimed the scourge was a benefit to the country, ridding the upper classes of the responsibility of keeping peasants off the streets. Rey had kept her tongue around such supposed gentlemen; if the scourge had not existed, if she did not rely on the kindness of distant cousins that lay along her family lines, she would've, she was certain of it, made it her duty to speak up against such clear nonsense.

Yet the undead had kept coming, her distant cousins had been consumed, and she had fallen far down to a friend of a late half-cousin, who had been, not six months ago, ripped apart by a disgruntled former maid who had screeched about the unfairness of wages as she'd feasted on her master's innards.

The friend of her half-cousin, Armitage Hux, was an unsavoury but wealthy gentleman, and perhaps an admiral in another life, with a training more for the mental than the physical elements of battle. Not two weeks into her stay at Hux's base, a small manor inherited from his father and built upon on the arrival of the infection, Rey had received an unpleasant surprise.

It was her great misfortune to learn that Kylo Ren, previously a commander in the militia (whispers from now deceased cousins had informed her of his once respected position alongside the legendary Skywalker), had had his own misfortune in that Hux had saved him from an oncoming zombie via the accidental triggering of a pistol, and so was owed a life debt by the former commander.

Rey had not met the fact with pleasure. While still living at Netherfield under Dameron's protection, Rey, alongside Finn, had met Ren. After a rumoured sighting of numerous undead, Dameron had brought together his old friends from his time on the ground in London, to discuss what could be done.

"You should not have guards on the grounds," Rey had suggested, remembering how her and Finn's guards had been set upon by the first scourge, a priest and his flock, and killed instantly. It was to fortune that they had managed to defeat the attack, and keep their manor for a little longer. "Their presence alerts the undead to the fact there is living, breathing human flesh - the one thing they crave - in a place."

"And if someone was seeking shelter, they would think the place deserted and proceed on, endangering them. Do not speak, Miss Kenobi, your naivety shines," Ren had said, with a nasty curl of his lip. His scar, gained in the First Battle of London, twisted as he frowned, conversing with Dameron. Rey had watched him speak; half-listening to his words, and decided she would never be able to like a man such as Kylo Ren.

The sound of the doorbell roused her, and Rey stood, smoothing down her skirts. She wondered, idly, if it might've been the messenger, delivering a forgotten letter.

Letters were a rarity, messengers willing to deliver them rarer, and like a spoiled child, she hadn't extrapolated the pleasure of reading her cousin's words. She had run her eyes over them, desperate for news and for his voice, his disposition, so that she could remember it anew and forget, for a while, the danger of the outside world. Her hope diminished as quickly as it had arisen, confusion replacing it as she stared at the visitor, blinking at him when he bowed.

"Miss Kenobi," Ren stated. He sat on the sofa as he was invited, leaning forward so his elbows pressed onto his knees. Rey stared at the clock on the mantelpiece, one eye on Ren.

He seemed to carry more than his usual agitation, or perhaps, she considered, it was a different agitation entirely. Rey started up, and then stopped. Rey rose to her feet at the same time in alarm, her eyes darting to the boards, the salon's closed door. There was no immediate threat, no obvious threat. Wary, she sat back down.

Ren remained standing, though he seemed at one point to want to return to his chair, but changed his mind and stood by the fireplace, then came towards her, stopping and clasping his hands behind his back.

"This has been a struggle." He spoke without the usual assurance, stopping and starting his words all at once. "But – my feelings aren't to be repressed. Despite your numerous inferiorities as a warrior, your placement in China instead of Japan being one of them, and your lack of good breeding, your past and current circumstances, everywhere I have turned, I have found you. And, now, I find myself in the position of wanting to teach my skills to another. To you, Miss Kenobi."

Rey, for a moment in the ensuing silence, wondered if this was perhaps a dream. In another moment, immediately succeeding the first, she doubted it were reality at all. The picture painted before her, standing over her, of a man wrestling in turmoil, was one she did not associate with Ren. At once, she coloured, remembering his words of derision. She almost spoke, but her circumstances forbade it. She clenched her fists tight in her lap.

Her connection with Hux was tenuous at best, and would only worsen if she were to cause injury, verbal or physical, to his reluctant friend.

She found herself examining past encounters, dinners shared, dances made, insults thrown, all in the confines of Netherfield Hall. Never once had Ren exposed himself as fond of her, or carrying any sort of affection for her. He had consistently derided her lack of teaching, subtle overtures in his words of further tutoring needed if she was to face the oncoming storm, for a storm was coming, he'd claimed, and she was far from ready for it. Neither was Finn, he'd declared, telling him he needed to strengthen his resolve, and thus prove his loyalty to the King.

Rey's colour deepened. She quietly rose to her feet.

"Did you influence Captain Dameron in his decision to offer my cousin a position on his ship?"

"The captain possesses his own mind, but he has loyalty to me."

Rey trembled, and repeated her question, with firm determination, but the answer, intoned to her in careful speech, remained the same.

"I understand that gratitude, or a sense of obligation, has to be felt at occasions such as these. I feel neither. If I did, I would thank you. However, on the topic of my education, I have never desired your opinion, good or bad, in spite of your consistent need to provide it. I am sorry that I have caused you this pain. Any pain that is additional to the pain currently suffered by all of us is deserved by no-one. I would not wish to cause any conscious pain on anyone except for the undead. May your pain only linger, and not endure." Her voice trembled at the last, and she turned away, swallowing back breaths.

Ren stepped closer to her. Rey hurried to move away from his figure, his shadow, going to stand at the salon door. Ren rounded on her, his eyes fixed on her face, but he did not move from his spot.

"And with such little attempt at true civility," he said. His tone was cold, sharp as a blade, and at the commencement of further speech, he gave a thin smile. Rey glared in return. "You've yet to learn the ways of life, Miss Kenobi. Perhaps, if you were less naive, you would realise that, in these times, such an offer is rare. You are unlikely to attract another tutor who is so willing to overlook your lack of proper education."

Despite her earlier covenant, that physical violence to Hux's associate would sever her fragile connection to him, her host, Rey's pride stirred and forced her hand, to such a point that she felt lasting triumph, instead of any lasting regret, in kicking Ren squarely in the stomach, with enough force to send him tumbling into the cards table.

Rey, not seeking to resolve the matter with any further words, for Ren had already proved himself to be lacking in that category, took hold of several historical volumes, targeting Ren. Ren straightened as the first volume approached his head, and knocked it away with the back of his hand. Rey spat Mandarin at him in a spitting snarl, more akin to a wild stray than a warrior. He replied with a cursory bow, returning the thrown volumes to her with a series of overarm throws. Rey yelped, dodging the throws with ducks of her head, and coming to grab the poker from its position by the fireplace.

Ren paused as Rey rounded on him. With such a substantial weapon now in her hands, she advanced on her adversary.

Ren dodged the first blow, blocking the heavy-weighted poker with his hand, clutching the shaft tight. Rey struggled against his grip, and flailed out, the flat of her hand rapidly approaching his cheek, but it was with his free hand that Ren blocked her intention, holding her wrist tight.

Rey panted against the weight, sweat beading on her forehead. She coloured again as her eyes held Ren's in the impasse.

"Did you influence Captain Dameron in any way about putting my cousin onto his ship?" she spat.

"I viewed your cousin as a distraction to your studies."

Rey snarled. "My studies?"

"If you are to survive the scourge of the undead," Ren said, still caught in the impasse, panting at the expended effort, strands of his hair dampening and sticking to his forehead, "distractions should be eliminated."

Hurt plucked at Rey's heart, her eyes growing wet, a renewed grief mixing in with her fury. Yet fury overcame, and Rey lifted her knee to direct it, with certain neatness, into Ren's groin.

Winded, Ren let go of her and she toppled to the floor, at the loss of his strength on her, yet she rose to her feet without hesitation, swinging the poker wildly in his direction.

"That was not – your – decision!" Every word was punctuated by a swing. The poker fell out of a hand with a thud against the wooden floor as Ren tripped her, sending her falling onto her back. Rey scrabbled for her weapon, her fingers outstretched, but Ren's boot kicked it away.

Averse to allowing Ren to gain the high ground, Rey turned her hands towards Ren's ankle, tugging him down to join her on the floor. Ren landed with a grunt, but before he could recover, Rey took it upon herself to straddle him, holding his hips tight between her thighs, her hands around his neck. Ren spluttered, quite understandably, at the force of the movement, his brow narrowed at the dishonour of it.

"He could've died!" Rey spat, her features close to Ren's, but her head filled with the warm words of her cousin. Her only remaining family, who had left with the knowledge that, unlike others, he would come home to a manor she had failed to protect, that, unlike others, he would return to the existence of begging shelter from people they barely knew.

The distraction was to Ren's benefit; Rey found her hands wrenched from his neck and rolled onto her back. She wrapped her legs tight around Ren's back, locking her ankles together, arching her back, attempting to push him away from her, to gain breath enough to resume the fight. Ren slammed her back onto the floor, pinning her wrists either side of her and a silence overcame them both.

The fight, as rapidly as it had begun, was ended. Rey slid her feet down to the floor, her knees arched as Ren straddled her, his usual pale pallor unaffected.

"I influenced Dameron to take your cousin onto his ship. I have no shame in admitting to that. But you, madam, have revealed your own character – it is as combative as my own." The frown in his brow faded, his eyes softening as he spoke, "Understand that I know your feelings. You can be assured that Hux will not learn of this."

He let her go, and stood, departing the salon with a bow to her. Rey breathed hard, her thoughts tumultuous and incomprehensible as she sat by the fire, unable to know how to think, how to act, how to pass the time until her host returned, save for tears.

When those were finished, her host was returned. He held little interest for her agitated manner, so Rey gathered up Finn's letters and retired to her room until supper.

All that evening, Ren found his place in her mind.


	259. How.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thenworld asked: "*whispers from the other side of the world* but how about pre-show sherlolly to how by regina spektor *hides under a rock*". This is [the song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bZ-JbNCLcAU).

He’s on top of her, and he’s moving inside of her. It’s afternoon outside. The window is open. The market noise echoes up three floors into her bedroom. 

He moves with short, hard thrusts, snapping his hips with each. Just how she likes it. She’s impatient, when she’s like this, hurrying to climax so she can slip off into bliss and escape the world. He fucks her like this when he knows she needs that. She’s hugging him with her ankles crossed over the low of his back. Her ankles are digging into his flesh. His mouth is kissing her neck. He is grunting. She is moaning, panting. Her hips are lifting up to match his rhythm.

“I love you,” she is panting, and they are words that are bleeding out from habit, from all the other times they’ve had each other this way. He is growling against her skin. It is a choked sound. She is hooking her hands around his neck. She is stroking the nape of his neck with her fingertips.

“I love you,” she is saying again, and she is biting on her lip now, forcing back each pant, each gasp, down her throat. They are bitter, taste like bile. The sofa pattern is scratching on her back. The back of her shoulders is rubbing against the arm.

Her climax is coming, coming until suddenly, it’s here, it’s rolling over her in waves, silent ohs—oh, oh, oh—hammering in her head, and she’s supposed to be forgetting. He is thrusting irregularly now, coming to his own climax. His seed is spilling inside her, and she is being reminded of 365 days ago when she believed she could start a life anew.

He is making tea five minutes later, while the silence is deafening. She is coming out of the bathroom, which is more of a bathroom cupboard. He is setting her flowery cup on the kitchen worktop. He is naked. She is nude.

She is drinking the tea now, ordinary builder’s tea, strong with sugar. They are drinking together, still in that deafening silence. The tea is slipping down their throats, slipping, sliding, dregs now, and she is washing up, and he is cradling her cheek while she has soap suds on her hands.

“It—”

“I don’t care,” he is cutting her off, which she is happy for. Because to admit what it was is to admit what she wants it to be. She is half-smiling, half-laughing to let him know how she feels. He is studying her still. His thumb is drawing over her cheek. It is touching the zygomatic bone, then it is touching the hollow, the place where, if she is losing too much weight, her mother worries. His thumb is repeating the motion. It sweeps up, then down, then around.

She is bursting, exploding, shattering, all the actions that indicate a fracture across the heart, a vivid enough metaphor that it feels like reality. In the true reality, she is simply crying. A crumbling face, a mouth downturns, a face hot with tears. She is trembling, her shoulders are trembling. She is naked as he is as he wraps his arms around her shoulders and hugs her. His chin is tucking against the top of her head. His lips are kissing her hair. He is whispering words in her ear, he is wordless, he is rocking with her, swaying idly from foot to foot in her kitchen until the sun is low, car horns are honking and he is wearing jeans. His shirt has two buttons open. His hair is growing out.

“Good luck,” he is saying, putting on his new coat and leaving. She is wearing a dressing gown, and she is walking to the window.

She is leaning out. She is breathing in the air of London. 

In the crowd, she is spotting him. Up at her, he is looking. He is giving, slowly, a soft smile. 

London is a small place. She will be seeing him, some day, again, when they are changed. For now, she is smiling back.

For now, he is turning his back and disappearing into the crowd. For now, she is watching him until he turns the corner of the street. She is shutting her window.

London is quiet.


	260. Officer Hux. (Rey/Kylo Ren, Imperial!Rey AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tiny AU contribution to the theory that Rey is actually the sister of General Hux (which is, let's be real, not as wacky an idea that Snoke is actually a time-travelling Kylo Ren...). Also, I will admit, a thinly-veiled excuse to imagine Daisy Ridley in a First Order uniform. And to write secret angsty trysts between Rey and Kylo on board the Finalizer.

“Officer Hux, to the bridge.”

Fingers curve over the button of the collar. Buttoned up. Straightened hem. She brushes stray wisps of her hair from her forehead. The beep of the intercom sounds again.

“Officer Hux, to the bridge,” is the terse command. Her hair is set in a low bun. She swallows, rolls her shoulders free of lingering sleep and turns on her heel. The door to her quarters slides open with a soft hiss. The sounds of engines thrum underneath her feet. She walks the cold wide corridor, every footstep clipped, until she arrives on the bridge.

He waits there, straight-backed General with the Supreme Leader’s Master Knight stood at his side. They do not look at one another, but out at the galaxy. Only occasionally do they share words, snatching comments designed to take chunks from the other. Rey stands behind them, brushing down the lines of her jacket.

“You summoned me.” She never announces herself, nor requests to know if her brother is busy. She is only ever ‘summoned’, and the only revenge she has in that suffocation is to trip him up.

“We’re soon to arrive on Jakku,” Armitage tells her, still looking out at the stars. “Check all systems are up and running.”

“And the map?” Rey asks. The Master Knight is the one who looks to her, face hidden by the mask, heightened breaths mechanic. Armitage slips him a glare before he turns on his heel, fully facing her. His lip curls into a sneer.

“None of your concern,” he answers. He reaches out and adjusts the collar of her uniform. He tilts his head in the vague direction of the bridge. “Do as commanded.”

Just as Father taught. Obedience in all things. It takes her a few moments to check the systems, and her brother has nothing further for her to do, so she is sent away. This is Armitage’s revenge for her existence. Father always hated weaklings, and despite his belief, his faith that he will conquer the stars as the Empire once did, Armitage will always know what Father saw him as. The thing he hated. So she stays in her quarters, wanders the corridors and is obedient to commands. However much she hates being shown up for what she is—young, not yet without legacy or reputation—she will obey.

“You walk like a Stormtrooper,” says a mechanised voice behind her. She clenches her fists and comes to a stop. She turns. Master Knight stares at her from behind his black mask, his face surrounded by the hood of his robe, the hem of which hangs down to his boots. He is huge, far bigger than her, big enough to take out whole squadrons, but he looks lean and lithe here, in the wide empty corridor of the Finalizer. Armitage had promised, when first she’d boarded, that she would see the stars, see planets lay to waste. All she sees are scattered stars from behind glass, sucking in false air.

Two Stormtroopers pass by them.

“You walk like a Jedi.”

He visibly stiffens at that. More than that. He surges forward and grabs her by her upper arms, pinning her to the ship’s wall. Rey smirks, imagining the terror behind the mask. She doesn’t know anything in particular. Only whispers, things she has gleaned since she came here from that rain-soaked rock she called home.  

“You know _nothing_ ,” Ren hisses from behind his mask. Rey’s smirk widens.

“Stormtroopers talk.” She tilts her head. “They wonder who you are.”

Not that they remember those questions, those wandering thoughts. Her brother is efficient. Both she and Ren scan the corridor. She slips free from his grip, turning into a small alcove. Crates are stacked high in the constricted space, where light is dark. Rey slams a button as Ren’s huge body squeezes against her own. The door slides shut, and with one hand, she removes his mask. She discards it on top of a crate.

In the dark, letting her eyes adjust to the light, she caresses his cheek. He swipes her hand away from his face, pinning her wrist above her head.

He takes up her other hand, pinning it against that same wrist, holding both in one hand.

Rey’s breath shortens.

“I’m not a _Jedi._ ” He rolls his hips against her thigh, already half-hard. In the darkness, she hides a flush. He punctuates his words with a rip of her uniform, undoing the buttons of her shirt and exposing her torso.

The uniform slides down her shoulders, his hands sinking down to cup her hips, her fingers sinking into his hair as he rolls his lips and tongue over her nipples, alternating between kissing and biting.

Once, her brother allowed her to go on a supply run.

On that trip, she’d got separated from her guards. That’s probably the reason Armitage keeps her locked up like this. Because she heard a name when she got separated from her guards. Spoken by an eccentric market seller with a fading memory and a fondness for speaking of heroes and the Battle of Jakku.

She clings to his hair, meeting the roll of his hips with hers, bringing his ear to her lips. His full lips kiss her collarbone and suck at the skin.

She bites at his earlobe and lets him feel her breath, hot, on his neck.

“Ben Solo.”

He slams his whole body against her, pinning her back against the wall again. His hand holds her at her back, his other at the base of her neck.

“Never call me that.”

Make deals, Sloane had told her. Make arrangements, and that’s how you survive. “Get me onto Jakku,” she says in the tight silence. “It’s my business what I do there, but get me onto Jakku.”

He kisses her in reply, not yet an acceptance of her deal, but an escape from the prison of a name. She kisses him back and thinks of it as just the same.


	261. 3 by 3. (Multiple pairings)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I challenged people on my Tumblr to send me prompts for three-sentence fics. Instead of posting these all separately in different chapters, I'm putting them here in one, with each prompt coming before each fic.

**cosetteskywalker: "Reylo, and remembrance".**

> A girl, across a ravine, with his grandfather’s lightsaber, strong against a crumbling planet. He was scarred, but she could rule universes. That’s what he remembers, and that’s what he will bring to his side, whatever it takes.

* * *

 

 **kylorenvevo: "Rebelcaptain, "25C is NOT cold!** ""

> “Jyn…” Cassian wipes the damp strands of her hair from her forehead, and softly kisses her temple, worshipping her as Chirrut worships the Force. “You suit any weather.”

* * *

**briarlily: "Reylo/family".**

> They have both been searching for family, in different ways, down different paths. But at last, scarred from their journeys, healed but still with memories of their deeds, their paths have converged in the colourless grey. It is the most beautiful place to be, Rey knows.

* * *

**lion-hearted-wolf: "Reylo and flower".**

> He is too big for the place which she called home, here on Jakku, and in it, he finds an old flower, painstakingly kept. The next time he holds a flower, it is a shade of blue, a drawing in of the Force. Its light caresses the slope of her cheek, her jaw, her lips, and the call is louder than ever.

* * *

 

**introspectivenavelgazer: "SpiritAssassian, Flex".**

> “There’s too much flex in that stick of yours,” grumbles Baze, after a lost bout. He says nothing else.
> 
> When Chirrut picks up his stick again, only to feel its newly levelled weight, he smiles.

* * *

 

**politicalmamaduck: "Reylo, luminous".**

> She lies at his side, in the darkness of their home, waves lapping distantly at the shore. He holds her, his wife, closer and brushes a strand of hair from her temple. In the moonlight of Anch-To, she shines like the Light, once a temptation and now; his story.

* * *

 

**introspectivenavelgazer: "Irene and Mary, martinis".**

> “Double.”
> 
> “Bad day?”
> 
> “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,”—at this, Irene raises an eyebrow, and Mary laughs—“but maybe you will.”

* * *

 

**sundance201: "Sherlolly, tissues".**

> She doesn’t believe him at first. But then she gets sick with the seasonal flu, and he’s crouching over her, putting a blanket over her shoulders and wiping her mouth, helping her sip water. He looks at her, simply looks; she believes.

* * *

 

**hoodakoalakitty: "Jyn comes back from a mission with a small fuzzy creature that starts off cute, but grows into a beast that you could ride on... but is completely devoted to Jyn".**

> Cassian, when she brings it back on the ship, doesn’t have the heart to tell her that the wolf she’s brought on board will soon outgrow Hoth, let alone the ship itself. Mostly because, when he looks at her, and watches her feed this wolf, he can’t help but wonder. And when she looks at him and grins, eyes shining like stardust, he knows.

* * *

 

**sherlollysmooch: "Sherlolly; spring showers".**

> “Marry me,” he blurts out, in the middle of an April shower while she’s holding a newspaper over her head as a makeshift umbrella.
> 
> She blushes, then smiles. “Shouldn’t we go on a date first?”

* * *

 

**erinspiderr: "Molliarty; watching Glee".**

> “You think I watched Glee because I liked it?“ The woman in the cherry cardigan snorts as she giggles, and her eyes glint instead of gleam. "No, I was just testing, seeing how devoted you’d be to your… _art._ ”

* * *

 

**sdeci04: "Sherlolly, godparents".**

> “It’s true, I’m afraid,” says the lawyer Sherlock has never met before, as Molly wraps her arm around his shoulder and kisses his temple. “And, as Rosie’s godparents, in accordance with the will… you have full custody.”


	262. Last Man in the World. (Sally/Mycroft, Pride and Prejudice AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> introspectivenavelgazer asked for a Salcroft version of the first proposal scene from P&P. Considering I've done it with Reylo and zombies, I was eager to do one for Sally and Mycroft.

While awaiting the yearned-for, and much promised by Mr Anderson, invitation to Rosings, Sally had become accustomed to the routine of taking walks within the Park. They put her, as she walked the paths and grass, underneath the dappled autumn sun, in mind of home. When she received letters, the thought of home was ever stronger. It was not Kent where she walked with Rosings in the distance, but the hills of Hertfordshire. 

Molly wrote to her most often. She wrote with the same bright manner as ever, but Sally saw in her words the effect of summer’s end. It is with regret, so had said the letter written in the hand of a loyal valet, that my employer, Mr Holmes, has decided to leave Netherfield indefinitely. Since then, Molly’s spirits had been mellowed, forced more than natural.

“Miss Donovan!”

Sally looked up to find Colonel Lestrade walking the same path, some way back from where she stood. Holding a hand up in greeting, he hurried forward until he stood at her side, and bowed in greeting. Sally folded Molly’s letter away and fell into step beside the Colonel.

“I didn’t know you walked this way.”

“Not often, no. Holmes recommended I try it out. Thought I’d end it with a visit to the parsonage,” he explained, pointing to the small cottage ahead.

“Then you can accompany me, or we can accompany each other,” Sally replied, giving a small smile. Colonel Lestrade nodded. They walked on in silence. It did not occur to her, despite the Colonel’s friendship with Holmes, to tell him of the numerous occasions she had accidentally met with the elder Holmes while wandering the Park. The first, she’d made certain to warn him of her routine, that she favoured the Park most of all; the second time, he apologised for intruding, and the third, they walked a little while, knowing etiquette but not what to speak of.

“If Holmes doesn’t put it off again, we shall be leaving Kent soon. Saturday,” Colonel Lestrade said. Sally was quiet, letting him chatter as they walked. “That’s why I wanted to make the visit to the parsonage. Unfortunately, I’m entirely at Holmes’ disposal, he arranges everything. Sorry, my mouth’s run away with me. Must sound ungrateful.”

Sally shook her head. “No. Mr Holmes seems to enjoy, more than anyone else, the power of doing what he likes. I’ve never met anyone else with such a… fondness for choice.”

“That is one way to frame it,” Lestrade said, chuckling. “But then, he is the elder; his younger brother is freer. Doesn’t carry the responsibility.”

“Yes, well. The elder Holmes is kinder to his brother than he is to others.”

“There’s some truth in that. In fact, just recently, he rescued his brother from a terrible mistake. A ‘bad marriage’.”

Sally forced herself to continue walking and recollect herself, enough that Colonel Lestrade asked her what made her so thoughtful.

“Nothing,” Sally replied, then corrected herself with: “Except – did Mr Holmes give a reason for this? For his interference?”

“None at all, but from knowing the man, I can surmise it. He dislikes sentiment, always has. Even keeps his own brother, despite the kindnesses he heaps upon him, at a distance. There were some objections too, I think, about the lady’s fortune.”

“What of it?”

“Well, a second son can’t marry whomever so he likes. There always has some attention given to money, sadly.”

“Doesn’t the younger Mr Holmes earn 5,000 a year?”

“From his elder brother’s own pocket,” Colonel Lestrade replied. “So, you understand – money is paramount.”

It was her fortune that Anthea and her husband were there to greet them; seeing Sally’s secret distress, Anthea made out she looked ill and sent her up to her room, urging her husband not to disturb until Sally was recovered. Sally, once in her rooms, listened to the muffled conversation and paced, all at once throwing herself down onto her bed. However, she was soon up again, finding Molly’s letters and re-reading them. In each one, she found a new focus on the spaces between the words, found her friend’s desperate melancholy.

A knock came at the door, alerting to the time passed. Midday sunlight had faded into the coming afternoon, the sunlight low and orange in colour.

“Miss Donovan,” came Mr Anderson’s clipped concern, “we are due—”

“Mr Anderson!” called up Anthea from downstairs. “We mustn’t be late!”

“Yes, of course—” Mr Anderson’s footsteps clattered down the stairs of the cottage, and the door closed behind them. 

When she was sure that they had gone, Sally retreated from her room and down to the parlour. She re-read the last of Molly’s letters but heard only Colonel Lestrade. Money is paramount, so he’d said. And Holmes had seen this to be fit enough reason to act as judge and jury? The singular comfort she could find in her anger was the fact that she wouldn’t have to interact with the man past Saturday. She could, of course, tell Molly of this, that it had been the elder Holmes who had been the cause of her pain, and yet—that would only make the pain worse, Sally knew. 

Her agitation was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. Sally rose to her feet, thinking it Anthea or Mr Anderson returning for his hat, which currently lay on the chair by the fire. Her agitation gave way to amazement as Mr Holmes came through the door.

He was as she remembered him. Balding at the front, dressed in the finest tailored garments, with a cane at his side. He was not lean like his brother but carried a slight stomach, and his face, rounded, carried a look of contempt. 

He bowed his head on entering.

“Miss Donovan. I came to – how is your health?”

“Fine enough, Mr Holmes,” she answered, with cold civility.

“I heard you were unwell.”

“I have recovered, Mr Holmes.” She scratched the pad of her thumb. “It was a small headache.”

“Very well.” Having sat, he suddenly stood up. Sally had the most suspicious feeling that he was nervous. She did not find this unexpected, for she was never good at hiding her feelings from others, and he must’ve, with his talked-about great intellect, have known from the start her cause for her behaviour.

“Miss Donovan, please, allow me to speak for the next minute without interruption.”

Sally coloured, but regained her composure. It was a strange request, but not one she had trouble acquiescing to. Most men, especially around her, never made the request of no interruptions but surged ahead in conversations as if such a request was needless, already granted by their existence.

“In spite of my attempts to cure myself of the affliction, Miss Donovan, you must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you. I’m sure you are as aware as I am that, in expressing these emotions, I am going against not only the wishes of my family, but my own better judgement. Yet I am prepared to go against these obstacles.” Holmes paused, taking a breath. Sally glanced towards the clock on the mantelpiece. The minute clock ticked patiently. “Understand that I have given much thought to this, and do not make this offer lightly. I request that you consent to be my wife.”

The afternoon sunlight passed over the parlour. Sally looked down at her hands, lighted in gold. She pressed her fingers against her palms, looking up at Holmes.

“I know that a sense of obligation – even happiness? – is expected, at times like this. Unfortunately, I find myself unable to feel the same way. Though I cannot expect to know the reasons why you have come to feel for me in this way, I can tell you that the reasons for your lack of acknowledgement of this regard will curtail it soon enough.”

“I doubt it, Miss Donovan, for I have examined the situation quite closely. Even acknowledgement of my family, your background, have proved irrelevant to the strength of my feeling.”

“My background, Mr Holmes?” She spoke slowly, standing to fully face him.

“Your background,” he repeated. “You cannot expect my family to rejoice at my feelings for you.”

A deep silence fell between them. The implication weighed heavier than any outright speech. 

“If I could feel gratitude for your proposal, Mr Holmes… I would now thank you. However, I do not. I’ve never desired your opinion, good or otherwise, on anything. I especially have never needed your opinion on the matter of my family. But I have other reasons for rejecting you. You know I have. Did you think I could ever be tempted to accept the hand of a man who endeavoured to, perhaps forever, ruin the happiness of my most beloved and closest friend?”

He was silent throughout, which served simply to increase her fury, and when he responded to her final query with an inclement smile, her lip trembled.

“Of course. My brother. I did wonder when that subject would emerge. Believe me, Miss Donovan, I’ve no wish to deny my involvement in that particular affair. I did everything in my power to separate my brother from Miss Hooper, and I rejoice in the triumph.” Taking up his hat and gloves, he tilted his head, staring at her in examination. “And this, in full, is your opinion of me, correct?”

“Correct, Mr Holmes.”

“Then I shall take my leave. I will not second guess you and soothe myself with thinking that, if I hadn’t been so honest, I might not have been rejected in this manner. You’ve made your position clear. But I am not ashamed of the feelings I’ve revealed to you. They were natural and despite my – distrust of sentiment, I can only follow what is natural.”

“Except for when it affects the state of your family,” Sally snapped. “Believe that, from the moment I met you, I knew you to be arrogant, selfish and disdainful of the feelings of others. Your actions prove my suspicions tenfold. But more than this, your judgement of my background, of my family, has made me certain that you are the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed upon to marry.”

Holmes coloured, opened his mouth, but was silent again. He made to open the door, made to leave her, but at the last moment, turned to face her. The silence was strained, yearning to be broken.

“My apologies. Forgive me for taking up so much of your time. Good afternoon, Miss Donovan.”

The door shut behind him.


	263. Bookworm. (Older!Sherlolly)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> itwasmycroftbbc asked: "meeting at a festival au".

He’s among people who seem more suited to the false light of a reading lamp than natural sunlight. They gather in dimly-lit tents and listen wide-eyed to the latest literary idol. He’s missing Sussex already.

He wonders dimly how his bees and Redbeard are doing as he scans the crowds, standing in a queue to some debut author’s Q&A. He reaches the entrance. He waves his pass at the staff. In return, they press a book into his hands.

“It’s on request of the author,” they say with a smile, standing by a pile each. Sherlock glances up and down the line. The other attendees are each passed a copy as they enter the tent. Sherlock settles himself at the back of the seating, which is only 100-strong and covered in pink and purple drapes, artfully hung from the lighting.

A small stage is set up. Pink roses, nestled in a white vase, sit on a table between two leather armchairs.

The announcer, or interviewer rather, makes final checks. Feedback briefly sharp against Sherlock’s ears, cut off with a laughing apology by the interviewer. A female, the interviewer is tall. young and red-haired. The shade (natural) reminiscent of Mrs Hudson’s flame-red hair. She wears neat clothing, monochrome and out of place with the romantic atmosphere. 

Sherlock glances over the cover. Glossy, plain black, with only the title in colour: a sharp, shocking white. Not a jot of pink or purple. 

It’s been a while since he’s held a brand-new cover like this one. He has his library, back at the cottage, which keeps him content enough, and on the occasion that he desires something different, the library often has a long-forgotten classic he can delve into. He’s an old soul, more than willing now to let the present live on without him.

He flicks to the dedication, past the blurb and opening pages. There’s a lot to be told by a dedication.

 _Dear, a man._ He sighs and snaps the book shut. No doubt the author thought that clever, or groundbreaking.

“Ladies and gentlemen, apologies for the wait,“ says the interviewer, holding now the microphone in her right, and a clipboard in her left. The lights overhead focus on the small stage, and she smiles over the audience. “My name is Helena Robertson, and I’ll be doing a small interview with our esteemed author before we begin the actual Q&A section. And I see you’re all digging into your copies! We don’t normally sanction free giveaways of new books, but seeing as this one has sold so many already, we didn’t see the harm!”

A few ripples of laughter flow over the audience. The interviewer continues.

“Our author for today’s exclusive Q&A has been travelling the length and breadth of the country promoting her debut novel, Amo.” Sherlock twitches but the interviewer, getting giddier by the moment, is speaking, so he focuses on that. “After spending much of her writing career in nonfiction, and garnering much respect from her peers, she has now branched out into fiction with her debut novel which has been called ‘outstanding’ by the Guardian, ‘a sensory exploration into the mind of humanity’ by the Times and has been in the New York Times bestseller list for seven weeks – though topping it only for two of those seven.”

A humorous sympathy drones from the audience. Sherlock shoves his copy underneath his chair and leans back, grunting a little as he shifts. A shorts-wearing middle-aged man scoffs at him and pulls up their socks. Sherlock focuses back on the stage.

The roses are in full bloom.

“So without further ado, please, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your author – Molly Hooper!”

All of his weight sinks down into the lower pit of his stomach, while his heart flies up in his throat. He coughs, jerking forward as applause ripples over the audience. He sighs. He hears her speak into a microphone, bright-voiced and friendly.

“Hi! Thanks for the welcome – and to Helena for the introduction. Shall we, um—”

“Very well organised!” quips Helena as she and Molly (Molly, Molly, _Molly_ , if he says it enough it won’t throw him) confuse one another over where the other is supposed to sit.

“Much more organised than any other festivals I’ve been to,” Molly replies, earning a few laughs. He sits up straight, closing his eyes, listening as she swaps small talk about traffic with Helena, beginning the interview.

The small talk soon falls into structured questions. Her influences (none, she’s a terrible reader, she confesses); her writing routine (a laptop, coffee and nothing but junk food); the best part of writing; if she believes fiction is a change for good or bad.

"Thanks very much Molly. Does anyone have any questions?”

Helena and Molly look over the audience. Sherlock leans forward, hiding his face from the stage behind an older woman’s bouffant hairstyle.

“Yes, the young lady over there.”

Sherlock tilts his head, staring through shoulders at the questioner. The young lady is in her 20s, with friends, and giggles as she begins to speak. Helena interrupts her.

“Sorry, you’re very quiet – we’ll get you a microphone—” She gestures to someone off-stage, and a crew member darts out, handing a microphone to the 20-year-old. She’s blonde, with her hair brushed back into a plait.

“If you could ask your question again,” Helena prompts, as she glances at her clipboard.

“Yeah, like, um – just wanna say, and ask, the book’s great, I love it but me and my friends, we were wondering – about your dedication? We looked everywhere on the internet, at your interviews, it’s never been explained… So yeah. Who’s the dedication to?”

Helena tilts an eyebrow at Molly, raising her microphone to her lips. “It’s true. 'Dear, a man’. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are conspiracy sites dedicated to cracking that particular code.”

“There are!” shouts one of the girl’s friends, leading to uncomfortable giggles.

“Well, there’s no particular code to crack. Sorry to disappoint,” she adds with a smile.

She looks beautiful. She’s grown out of ill-fitting blouses and cardigans that clash. Now, she takes pride in her love of fruit-based clothing. She wears a sundress dotted with cherries and sandals with straps that wind perfectly around her ankles. A thin silver bracelet slips down her arm as she speaks into the microphone.

“The book was always going to be something… something like a journey. Even though the people were fictional, the concepts weren’t. So my dedication reflects that, really, though initially, it wasn’t supposed to.”

“You mean, you wanted to dedicate your book to someone both real and unreal?” Helena asks. Molly shakes her head. Her hair is down around her shoulders, and there’s a slight kink in it. She must’ve had it up most of today, then taken it down just before going on stage.

It reminds him of false curls, a silver bow and red lipstick. He clenches his fists.

“No. It was originally going to be dedicated to someone very real, but I realised, just before publication in fact… he was never one for attention.”

“So you took his name from the book because he was shy?”

“No, he was never shy. Never ever,” Molly laughs a little, “the furthest from shy. But he never liked getting the attention that he wasn’t the cause of.”

He’d have to be an idiot not to realise who she is speaking about.

He retrieves his copy from underneath his seat. He opens the opening page.

Amo. The main title. (His hand trembles again.)

The subtitle: A Story of Grief.

Another inquiring mind stands up, passed the audience microphone by the crew member. This one is elderly, with glasses hanging from their neck.

“Grief is one of the strongest elements of this book,” they begin. “You seem so young, how come you managed to tap into such a deep emotion?”

“I’ve spoken in other interviews about this, and the answer’s simple: my father died when I was younger.” She sounds charming, but terse underneath the brightness. He hides a proud grin. “And grief, and this is a point made in the book, never leaves you.”

“This is an important point,” Helena says, jumping in. “Sometimes, grief in books is written off as 'one of those things’. Yet your protagonists are never able to get over it, even up until the last page.”

“Quite right. Because that reflects life. The immediate grief fades, but the long-term grief, the knowledge that that particular person will not be around anymore – ever – is a fact. And facts, as I’ve learned, are inescapable. But that doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” she adds quickly. “Grief makes us. Me, for instance. My father’s death spurred me onto my career as a forensic pathologist.”

“I was just about to discuss that,” Helena says, eager but still noting the sober atmosphere. “Others involved in scientific fields, while venturing into creative writing have often become involved with genres like thrillers, or murder mysteries. With you having been a forensic pathologist, it’s an easy assumption to make that you would follow that path also.”

“And yet I didn’t!” She scoops her hair around her shoulder. “I often wonder why I didn’t, to tell the truth. It is my field after all, death and its causes. But this book, this story of friends coming together after a tragedy, was what ended up in my head. I think real life bled into my ideas a little bit.”

“Real life?” Helena sounds excited. Obviously, this hasn’t been discussed before. Molly blushes underneath the lights and shifts in her seat.

“I, um… I used to work alongside the consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. Right up until he left London, actually. We often saw cases where people came together after a death, and that’s where it came from.”

 _Amo_. He smiles. Molly Hooper is an excellent liar.

“I have another question! I’ve got one!” It’s the 20-year-old again, waving like she’s bringing in a plane. When the crew member rushes over to her, she pulls the microphone from his hands.

“Is Sherlock Holmes the man? The one you were going to dedicate your book to? An online theory _said_ it was—”

“Thank you very much,” Helena says loudly, as Molly colours. The 20-year-old’s friends tug her down, and they whisper angrily among one another. A brunette of their group gets up and flounces to the back of the tent.

An awful silence falls over the tent.

“Molly,” begins Helena, “obviously you don’t have to answer…”

Molly hesitates. She brings the microphone to her lips. Crosses her legs, tucking her hand against her side, as if hugging herself one-handed.

“It’s fine. Yes, I can confirm that, finally. Sherlock Holmes is the man in my dedication. My reasons why, however, are personal.”

“Very understandable,” Helena says, eager to gloss over the incident. Sherlock feels thrown, off-balance, has been ever since her name passed Helena’s lips and she stepped out on stage.

“Um… sir? Do you have a question?”

He looks up, realising he’s stood as he’s been staring at the white words: Amo. Another dedication. One only he, John, Mycroft and a handful of high-ranking government officials will ever know.

The crew member runs up to him and holds the microphone out to him.

The world is treacle as he holds it, and lifts it to his lips. 

“Hello.”

Molly’s flushed pallor turns pale. Her brown eyes sweep over, then lock, onto him. He has neither improved or worsened during his time away from her, from London. He’d made the plans for departure, for retirement, in secret, and left everyone hanging. Mycroft found him after a week and Rosie had to be held back by her father when they first came to visit, a month later. Molly… he hadn’t searched for her, despite offers from Mycroft. He’d just left her, to grow and blossom as she never would do with him in the picture.

The worst thing is, she has.

Her hair is still as long as it ever was, a rich light brown, her skin sun-kissed from the book tour. A little filled out, from all those luncheons from publishing agents, he suspects. (That’s the stereotype, anyway.)

He blushes as he remembers how he’s gone grey early. They call it the 'pepper pot’ look. Flecks and streaks of grey in his black curls. A slight tummy from all the honey his bees make. A fisherman’s jumper with pushed up sleeves over an ironed shirt. Rosie says it’s fashionable for men of his age.

He wears glasses now, too. Thick-rimmed ones, rounded non-reflective lenses.

She jumps to her feet suddenly, causing murmurs. She sways, then stills. Her lip trembles, her hand shakes as she brings her microphone to her mouth. Her eyes are wet.

“Hello. Sherlock.”


	264. Force in a Storm. (Rey/Kylo Ren)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the-reylo-void asked for a Reylo version of the Bughead scene from Riverdale's season 1 finale, and I really couldn't resist the challenge.

She kisses him, softly at first, so it’s a brush of her lips on his. Curiosity. 

It was curiosity that brought her to this planet. _I need to know more_ , she breathed out into the Force. 

 _Tython_ , whispered the voice, his voice, that’s been in her head since Starkiller. In the dark, she walked the steps of Ahch-To, and flew his father’s starship to a planet hidden in the Deep Core. She walked through ash, her path twisting and turning until she found him.

They battled, as they always do. She got him on his back, her legs around his hips, her lightsaber hovering over the exposed portion of his throat.

“Will you?” asked he, his voice hidden behind a machine.

She thumbed off her lightsaber. _Go on_ , he’d snarled before, in other battles. _Or come to me._ To the Dark side, that she’d once rejected with a stroke of his grandfather’s saber.

That saber is long locked away. She is older now, her hair no longer the girlish youth, her features hardened by the ocean. Once, she looked at herself and thought she might be beautiful, if raised somewhere else, in the bosom of a family. She looks at herself now and feels a power she hasn’t yet reached.

Some days, the temptation is overwhelming.

If only to make the voice stop. Sever the bond.

All those battles. He never kills her. Only offers. 

She never kills him.

She let her hands trail over the metal of his helmet, tracing the line she thinks his scar would be, brushing her fingertips over his mouth. His breaths grew raggedy, an inhuman mechanical sound. She sank her hands down to the sides of his head. (Curiosity, the first.)

Pssh. The helmet was lighter than she thought. It slid off his face, and she abandoned it among the ash, where his lightsaber somewhere lay.

His scar was thin, a delicate thread of flesh over his skin. His lips were parted in harsh breaths.

Disarmed. Unprotected.

His eyebrows dipped as her eyes flitted over his face. She thought him a monster in a mask. Poured his monstrosity into the injury she had given. A wide, gaping mark of her own darkness.

The scar he wears, in reality, is barely noticeable in the night.

 She wrapped her hand around his throat.

His eyes flickered closed, and he chuckled. His body reverberated underneath her with it, as it became a full-bellied laugh. Her grip loosened around his neck. He breathed, eyes open and staring, without shame, up at her.

No offer. No agenda.

“That’s why I love you.”

Her throat went dry. She could only grasp his neck again, and growl.

But she leant forward. Is leaning forward, time has caught up to her, and she is kissing him again, another brush with the curious, and the interest lingers. 

Her hand falls from his neck to his shoulders, and he sits upright, grasping her by her neck, his fingers sliding into her hair. 

He pushes off her jacket, messy and clumsy, and she pulls at his cape, scrunches the material underneath in her fists in some half-hearted attempt to tell herself this is only a brief reality.

She’ll kill him soon.

But for now, she lies in the ashes of this planet, feeling the Force surround her, a crash of Dark and Light, as he kisses her neck, her bare shoulders.

He tears her top in two, leaving her bindings exposed to him. She lets him tear those too.

Lightning crashes overhead, lighting the whole sky. Raindrops drop on her skin, running over her flesh, down her neck. He cups her neck, and kisses her underneath her jaw.

She tilts her head back, holds him closer.

“Kylo Ren,” she pants against his ear, voice catching in a moan, “I love you.”

She never kills him.


	265. Hidden Within Words. (Rey/Kylo Ren, The Sound of Music AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> skip-supports-ships asked: "Rey never tried ice cream before and Kylo is shocked by that so now both are at an ice cream parlour trying all the different flavours".
> 
> I don't know how I saw this prompt and went for this, but I did. Anyway. The Sound of Music AU, where Rey is Maria, Kylo (Ben in this instance) as Captain von Trapp, while Poe and Finn take the place of Max and Snoke is the First World War.

Rey glances furtively over the pastel colours of the terrace. The late afternoon has brought with it a soft breeze. The captain, newspaper in his hands, smoothes its corners as he puts it down on the table. He still wears his clothes from earlier. When she’d stood before him, soaked in river water, and flung truths at him. He lifts his head to notice her. His eyes shift, scanning her change in clothes.

It’s the only dress she owns not out to be washed. It’s the one in which she arrived from the abbey, mistaking the loyal butler for her employer. It is grey and harsh now she is used to cotton and satin.

This is their third meeting, she realises as she waits for him. The silence seems to last the whole evening, in her mind the sun setting until they are left in darkness. She blinks, and the sun is still up, though flooding the sky with orange, the lilac of dusk encroaching and the evening still only a part of the routine.

The terrace doors open, and Frau Phasma enters. In her hands, she carries two small bowls. Inside them, two scoops of gelato. White as snow, crisp as frost. A silver spoon tucked into the white, inviting her to eat.

She plays innocent.

“Dameron is joining you?” she asks, still not moved from her post. This is how Unkar taught her when she lived atop the mountains and heard the free voices in the abbey echoing through the trees. To be good and say nothing. She fidgets with her skirts.

The captain smirks. 

“There are two bowls, Fraulein. Dameron and Finn go hand-in-hand.” He gestures to the seat opposite him. “It came all the way from Vienna.”

Rey still doesn’t make to move. “I’m not accustomed, Captain.”

“I’m not accusing you,” he explains in return. “Sit.”

He is preparing to remove her. This way is oddly gentle, far away from the man she met months ago, military and straight-backed and flinching when she carelessly mentioned the Great War. (She never spoke of it from that moment.)

Rey steps forward, her body stiff and awkward as she sits, curving her dress underneath her legs and tucking them tight together.

The captain waits for her to take her first bite. The cold sharpens the taste, but that quickly fades. Vanilla surrounds her tongue and invades her breath.

“It’s good,” she replies, quickly adding “captain”. His smirk becomes a smile. He takes his first bite.

“I last had this in Vienna,” he begins, but the story leaves him. Instead, he sighs and sinks back in his chair. The newspaper’s pages flutter in the wind. Strands of her hair catch on her bottom lip.

“Will it happen?” she asks, tucking the hairs back behind her ear. He watches her for a long moment, the smile fading but never fully leaving. He clings to it as he looks at her, his eyes finding hers with familiarity and ease.

“Will what?” he teases, but the tone doesn’t take. He clears his throat, and folds his hands in his lap, crossing his legs. “You spoke out of turn today, Fraulein.”

“I had to, Captain,” she says calmly. “Your children love you.”

He fiddles with his spoon, twirling it between forefinger and thumb. His lips thin in thought. 

“Are you certain?”

“I am, Captain.”

“Do they love you?”

“Yes, Captain. I’m sure of that too.”

“Then you’re staying.”

Her future, decided immediately, with a dismissive wave of his hand. She thinks of the mountaintop, how trapped she felt under Unkar’s thumb, nothing more than a bandit. She thinks of the abbey and their kindness. They had raised her, from girl to woman, and sent her here when her heart proved too big for its walls.

“Very well, Captain,” she says finally. She stands, but he catches her by her wrist, and she turns to face him.

“Rey. I want you to stay,” he says, stuttering at first. His fingers slide from her wrist. “I’m… asking you to stay.”

She lets herself breathe for a moment. She slides back into the chair opposite him. Together, they eat and watch the sun setting.


	266. 3 by 3 (II) (Multiple pairings)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did another ask game on Tumblr, asking for people to send me a ship and an AU, and I'd write a three sentence fic in return. All three sentence fics are below, preceded by the respective prompt.

**lariren-shadow asked: "reylo, sherlock au"**

She spoke into the silence around the swimming pool. “I will kill you.”

He grinned in return. “No, you won’t.”

 

* * *

 

 

**thenworld asked:**

**"reylo bake a cake":**

“Kylo!” Rey shrieked, laughing as he wrapped one arm around her waist, lifting her up the floor. She wrapped her legs around his waist in return, linking her hands against the nape of his neck.

“You’re terrible,” she laughed, giggling as he nodded, chewing his slice of their freshly made cake as he carried her off into their bedroom.

 

**"sherlolly, going to a concert":**

“Is this really necessary?” Molly asked, shifting in her evening gown (it was old, last he’d seen it, they’d both worn wedding rings).

“Well, if we’re going to pull our concert off,” Sherlock said, pressing a small-but-expensive tub of ice cream into her hands as he sat beside her, “we need to know our competition, don’t we?” (Mini accompaniment to my orchestra!AU)

 

**"reylo, moulin rouge"**

“Kylo loves me,” she snaps, protective because she is an orphan, and it is a miracle that this is what she had managed to find: a family, in this poor, lonely writer, broken just like her.

Unkar fixes her with a glare of contempt. “You are nothing but a whore, girl – and your price has been paid by Admiral Hux – that price includes your heart.”

 

* * *

 

 

**mizjoely asked:**

 

**"sherlolly, ballet AU"**

He moves around the rehearsal space with the stern expression all the girls in the chorus have talked about. She practices her fourth routine, learning them all before the performance, committing them to memory; suddenly, she feels a hand on her wrist, and him pulling her to his body.

“You’re far too good for chorus,” he says, swaying with her, without rhythm but a smile.

 

**"warstan, both in Afghanistan AU"**

“Medic!” screams a soldier. John darts through bullets, over rocks and across dirt, towards the call. The wound is a shot to the shoulder, bleeding profusely, but she laughs as he administers treatment among gunfire, and such blind loyalty to life has him thinking: she’s perhaps the loveliest thing he’s ever seen.


	267. Holmes Books. (Bookshop owner AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For conchepcion, after chats on Tumblr. Kind of a Black Books AU, kind of not.

_“Oh my God!” squeaked Rebecca, grabbing the copy from Molly’s hands, flicking through the yellowed pages, “Oh my gosh, a first edition, it even has – oh – that first copy smell! You’ve got to tell me where you got this—”_

Molly found herself tugged along, rather than leading the effervescent head of the book club down the narrow street towards the small, indifferent looking bookstore. 

The shop bell tinkled above them, Rebecca’s mouth swinging open, eyes swivelling to take in the disorganisation. She dived immediately into an aisle, squeaks and gasps coming at a rapid pace, books being snapped shut and opened. Molly stood awkwardly for a moment, rocking back and forth on her heels.

She hadn’t quite expected Rebecca to be this excited when she’d mentioned finding the place, considering 'Holmes Books’ was more of a to-read pile that had got vastly out of control than a retail shop.

Something in the distance skittered over the wooden floor. A great screeching yowl came from Rebecca, who appeared, stumbling, from the aisle, numerous books squeezed to her chest.

“What the hell was that?” she asked, gasping, taking in gulps of air.

“He calls it the shop dog,” Molly said quietly, swallowing a grin. Toby was mostly harmless, a great lolloping Red Setter, but among all the books and thoughtless arranging, he did often give customers, what ones were allowed through the door, a terrible fright.

“I think this place could do with a tidy,” Rebecca said, suddenly prim. It was why Molly’s mother liked her. She carried a skittish, bright veneer, but behind it was a stickler for time and a believer in plans. Molly always found herself the opposite. Nearing the pine table in the centre of the shop, Molly narrowed her eyes.

Rebecca grabbed the yellow Post-It first, snatching it off the hardback it was stuck to.

“12?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Molly replied, avoiding Rebecca’s eye by scanning the pages. The font was readable, not the tiny font she detested, and a light enough weight in one hand that she could read it wherever, making coffee, breakfast. Unable to escape the written word.

When Rebecca wasn’t looking, she checked the front page. Underneath the title, something scrawled in pencil, easy to rub out. (Not that she ever did, not she’d ever thought of doing so.)

_£3. Take it to the next meeting, you’re better than bloody Kinsella._

Molly hid a smile, snapping shut the book, tucking it behind her back. She followed Rebecca to the desk, which sat before an entryway covered by a curtain. It was still, undisturbed, as Rebecca called out for service.

“Hi!” Rebecca called louder. “I want to buy some of your books, hello?”

“Then buy them!” called back the caustic tongue of the owner. Molly bit back a laugh, Rebecca gaping at the reply.

“Excuse me? I am a customer! You’re supposed to serve me,” she said, drawing out her last few words, reminding Molly of too many weekends helping her mother around Tesco.

“Good afternoon, nice day isn’t it, thank you for visiting,” came the voice, the curtain still not moving, no presence made. There was a pause. “Are you still there?”

“Yes!” snapped Rebecca, though she immediately huffed, shaking her head, snapping open her purse. She slammed down a £50 note. “So much for ‘friendly atmosphere’, Molly.”

“I never said—”

The shop bell tinkled, contrasting sharply with the violent door slam.

Molly shrugged, glancing up to find Toby appearing from the back of the shop, from behind a tall wall of books, tail wagging and knocking over a fair few dictionaries in his wake. He passed his snout over her palm, searching for strokes, before sliding underneath the curtain towards his master.

She listened for the familiar affection, the muttered joshing and joking, the slam of Toby’s tail against the wooden floor. Toby barked sharply.

“Thanks for the book,” she said, perching on the desk, re-opening it. “Nice opening sentence. You’ve yet to recommend a thriller. You like those, don’t you?”

He snorted. “I like mysteries. Real life ones. Thrillers are for people who can’t think. One day someone will come up with the ultimate holiday read: a lonely neurotic woman searching for meaning in her life, thinking it all boils down to the two men in her life, and in the meanwhile, she has to stop a nuclear apocalypse from happening in 24 hours.”

Molly snorted, giggles coming. “You’ve read that stuff before.”

“I just know people, that’s all. I know what they read.”

“You should, you own a bookstore.”

“Hm.”

There was a silence, companionable, Molly finding herself easily lost in the easiness of it, her mind drifting to the Post-Its. She hadn’t told him, would never dream of telling him, but she kept them all. He probably assumed she threw them away. After all, they were just numbers, for when he wasn’t there when she arrived, or too busy to talk to her face-to-face. She kept them anyway. His little scrawls, the numbers. 2, 60. 12. It had just been three instances since she’d bought her first book from him,  _Jane Eyre_  (the only book he hadn’t recommended) that she hadn’t seen him when the shop bell tingled. 

They were precious as life to her.

When first he’d flicked back that curtain and tilted his head at her, curious to know who exactly it was coming in searching for stuff she never actually liked (“what sort of torture is that,” sighed he. “Book club,” laughed back she), Molly had not thought him particularly handsome, or with beauty. He had cheekbones too high, a look too intense, gangly arms and legs, and dark curly hair more belonging to Mr Rochester than an eccentric, lonely bookshop owner.

Then, as they talked, every fortnight, every day before her dreaded book club. He made her forget the obligation, forced into by her own procrastination, skipping bi-weekly session after bi-weekly session, dodging the inevitable with grimaces about work (“and how many dead bodies makes a back-up, darling?” asked with sharp disapproval), or sympathetic apologies because of concrete, uncancellable plans already made with Meena. And with every Post-It note, she’d begun to smile at his scrawls rather than raise an eyebrow. 

The first time his face appeared in her dreams, she called it a weird one-off. 

The second time, when she was simply walking down a street holding his hand until he turned to her, about to speak, and she woke up, she knew the truth.

Still. Difficult to tell the bloke you bought your books from you were in love with him.

Such a cliche as well. Stuff only wrote about in books, destined to sit on the shelves in Waterstones, alongside quirky, tongue-in-cheek promotional displays about the world coming to an end. (Quick, a celebrity’s the President, read 1984 while it’s still ironic!)

With a brief goodbye, she set down the money and approached the door.

“Molly?” She turned towards the sound, expecting the curtain. Seeing those two intense blue eyes, she yelled, hands flying to her mouth. The book came tumbling from her hands, landing on the floor.

Sherlock stood in the entryway in a shirt and tartan dressing gown, blinked.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

Spoken at the same time, fumbling for words, and he cracked a smile. Toby’s paws pattered against the floor, whining as he settled at his owner’s feet. Sherlock brushed his fingers over the dog’s head, scratching him behind the ears.

“I suppose the Post-Its were a long shot anyway.” He spoke more to himself than her, but it still felt aimed at her, as if he’d shot an arrow into the air, too scared to hit the target. In case it landed?

“Long shot,” Molly echoed, rolling the words around on her tongue.

“All these books – they talk of romantic gestures like they’re easy but I don’t think it’s narratively attractive to actually show the logistics of planning such things.”

Romantic. He’d used that word. Romantic. Alongside the word 'gestures’. The context was the key, she supposed. She’d have skipped over those words in any other conversation, another part of his vocabulary, but 'like they’re easy’. 

“Sherlock…”

“Mm?”

“Is this… is this the part where you kiss me?” His head shot up. For the first time, she saw him flushed. The tips of his ears, the high of his cheeks. Molly gave a soft laugh, giving a simple shrug. “Doesn’t matter. I’d just – I would really like this to be that part.”

Toby barked, offended, as a set of encyclopaedias and dictionaries thudded, skittered across the floor, knocked over as Sherlock pushed past them, towards her. 

“This, Molly Hooper,” he gathered her face in his hands, his lips inches from hers, inching closer and closer, as her smile widened, “is very much that part.”

In the setting afternoon sun, Molly felt her bookseller smile against her lips as she kissed him, her fingers sliding against his hair and his hands sliding underneath her blouse, over her belly, the small of her back. 

Damn being original.


	268. Missing in Action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking prompts on Tumblr from [this drabble list](http://mollymatterrs.tumblr.com/post/162288327241/drabble-challenge-1-150). 
> 
> mizjoely asked for #7 ("You've gone to the bathroom fifty times today"). Takes place during a wedding, but not a TSOT AU.

“You’re not subtle you know,” Greg says, taking a sip of his beer.

“Don’t know what you mean.”

“You’ve ‘gone to the bathroom’ fifty times already,” Sally, sat beside him, says. Lestrade smiles into his drink, his hand underneath the tablecloth smoothing over her thigh.

She gives nothing away as he strokes his thumb in little circles over her skin. Could play poker with the gods, she could. If she wanted.

Over at the dancefloor, some cougar woman is dancing the night away with a young bloke she can’t stop grinning at, while the bride is slumped against the groom’s chest, the two of them in their own world.

“And you can’t stop looking at your phone,” Greg adds.

Sherlock idly swirls the wine in his glass. “She is her own woman.”

“I swear to God, it’s just a pathology conference.”

“She was nervous about her speech, I gave her some last-minute encouragement.”

“So you admit you’ve been checking up on her?” Sally asks, her eyes slyly flicking towards the hall’s entrance. Sherlock doesn’t notice, wrapped so tightly in the fact his girlfriend’s had to go to a conference as he is.

“I haven’t been—”

“Missed the food then, did I?”

Sherlock is straight up on his feet, turning to face Molly, stood behind him. She doesn’t have a chance to say hello further before he’s kissing her, dragging her out of the main and upstairs.

Greg stares at them, seeing their distant figures at the top of the stairs kiss again. He looks away when Sherlock tugs Molly closer, staring into the bottom of his glass. He doesn’t want to even register the fact that Sherlock touches bums, not even if that bottom belongs to Molly.

“Remember when I once said Sherlock could do with a woman?”

Sally laughs.


	269. First Meeting. (Sally Donovan/Mycroft Holmes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> introspectivenavelgazer asked for #42 from the drabble list for Salcroft: "This is where you impress me, right?"

The smooth black car pulled up in an empty factory. Brand new and shut down for the night. Special access. The woman sat next to her (good looking, polished, hand glued to phone), looks up as the car door opens.

“Good night,” she says, kindly, but with enough authority to display the order that it is. Sally gets out.

Her low heels click-clack over the stone floor. A man stands in the middle of the wide open space, surrounded by gleaming machinery, yet standing out from it all. Not like a sore thumb, but like a Van Gogh painting among hundreds of darkly-coloured Rembrandts in a museum.

“Good evening, Miss Donovan,” says the man. He’s balding, with a slight stomach and he carries an umbrella like it’s a cane. A phone chimes; it’s his phone, and he takes it from his coat pocket. He’s a symbol for the financial district and Westminster slammed together.

The phone keeps ringing. Her eyes drift to the caller ID. It’s just initials and numbers, nothing special. Considering all of this, the closed factory, the black saloon car, Sally guesses that’s deliberate.

The man rejects the call, easily sliding his phone back into his coat pocket. There’s nothing he trips up on. He’s like fluid made into a person, slipping and sliding as and when he pleases.

“You have recently discovered the pleasure of working with Sherlock Holmes. Have you not?”

“Wouldn’t call it a pleasure,” Sally says. She’s not stupid. She knows this is a potentially dangerous situation, but she’s not about to defy the Geneva Convention and end up with a headache at work.

“He’s a busybody,” she continues, shifting her weight, tugging her coat tighter against her chest. “What sort of freak looks at a triple homicide and leaps for joy?”

“You have a humour, Miss Donovan. That will come in handy for you. And you are a stickler for the rules.”

“Pardon?”

“You are alone, with a stranger, who knows your name and knows details of your work. Yet you have made no attempt to arrest me.” The man smirks. “Your boss didn’t last nearly as long as this.”

“My boss is as much of a stickler as I am.”

“I don’t mean Detective Inspector Lestrade, Miss Donovan.”

“Oh, you mean my ‘boss’ boss. Right, okay. Yeah, I can see that.” She pauses, finding in the silence just how comfortable this man is making her, and how quickly. She adjusts her stance, rolling her shoulders, clearing her throat.

“This is where you impress me, right? Tell me some secret information—”

“Your cleverness is waning, Miss Donovan.”

Sally groans at those words. She knows exactly the tone, even if it’s only been hanging around the police station like a bad smell for three days.

“God. Not another one. You’re his brother, aren’t you?” She flicks her eyes over him, scanning. “Older?”

“My name is Mycroft Holmes,” he answers. A gravity enters his eyes. “And my brother is clever, cleverer than – almost anyone. But he is foolish. He has a lack of regard for society. One day, that might improve. But if ever you think he has done something wrong… I want you to report it. Immediately.”

“So you want me to babysit?” Sally snorts. “Fuck off. I’ve got a job.”

“Which is why I called you here. Remember the convention, Miss Donovan. Remember why you trained for your position.”

He turns away from her, swinging his umbrella and resting it against his shoulder.

“Is that a threat?” Sally calls after him.

“Entirely the opposite.” Looking over his shoulder at her, he fixes her with a smile. “A request.”


	270. Mr Ren. (Rey/Kylo Ren, 50 Shades of Grey AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I AM NOT A 50 SHADES FAN.
> 
> Rather, this is what happens when someone tells me 'Nah, that's impossible'. (I pride myself on making an AU out of anything.) Though I guess this AU is only tangentially linked to that tome of terribleness by the fact that one's of a business honcho - though not really - and one of them's a bit clumsy. 
> 
> The basic background is that Rey is the adopted daughter of Maz Kanata, an iconic figurehead in London's financial district, and Kylo is a librarian who meets Rey at his work, thinking she's just another regular customer when ta-da! She's actually the girl who's heading up the investments into charities and public buildings by Kanata Industries. Technically, Kylo's boss. And he's been fantasising about her since they met.
> 
> ... Whoops?

Kylo Ren lay in his shoe box bedroom, in his shoe box apartment, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, panting breaths that were short, sharp and not meant to be. His fingers curled into a fist against his stomach. His cock flaccid, the pool of cum at his side leaking into the mattress protector. 

Kylo swore at nothing. 

He swung his legs over the edge of the small bed, sitting up with a groan in the dark. London’s heat wave was sweltering, yet in an instant, he yearned for the dry heat of home, his childhood home where his father fixed cars in the front yard and his mom visited from Washington D.C. whenever possible. She liked to sit on the front porch, on the weekends she was there, and drink lemonade, share a cigarette with his father. In remote Carolina, there was nothing but fields and trees to see the buttoned-up Senator relax.

Kylo rattled his hands through the pans in the sink, swirled the water around a cup, dried it. Switched on the kettle. Other senators thought the arrangement strange. Bring up a kid in Washington, they said. Show some family unity.

His family wasn’t normal, and his mother liked to keep it that way. What do they care, Han, she sighed on those sunny weekends on the porch while the insects sang their fucking eternal song.

“I like our family,” she said, and his father would kiss her knuckles.

The kettle came to the boil, and Kylo poured himself coffee.

“So?” smiled a memory in his head as he sat at his desk underneath his apartment window, drank his coffee and burned his tongue. He rolled his tongue over his teeth, sucking in a breath. “She liked your family. Did you?”

The memory glittered with brown eyes and brown hair and a book tossed methodically between her hands. She was young, just another customer, with an elegance older than her body. She wore a white T-shirt and black cut-off shorts. Flip flops and sunglasses pushed up into her hair. Coping with the weather.

“I moved to London,” Kylo muttered under his breath, taking a gulp of the coffee. Beyond the window’s glass, London in the night was an array of lights. Not the single flicker of the street lamp back home.

Sighing, Kylo drained back the rest of the black coffee. He’d have bags under his eyes. She’d ask about it. Ambling to his feet, Kylo dumped the cup into the sink, shuffling with a yawn into the living room.

He flicked on the television, accessed on demand. Watched some crap sitcom from years ago. As long as he was as far as he could get from that stain, he would be fine.

As long as he didn’t dream about her again. Then he could kid himself he wasn’t every kind of sick joke.

* * *

 

Back in Carolina, he would walk through the fields under the hot morning sun to the lake in the forest, and dive into the cool water until he could feel his muscles underneath his skin, his thighs and arms well-used. 

In London, you had to pay twenty pounds and up for the privilege. Pulling himself up from the chlorinated water, Kylo climbed out of the pool. A bunch of school kids ran into the swimming area, splashing around in the foot showers, as he entered the changing room. He wiped the excess water from his face, his arms, his legs, his torso. Slipping into a private cubicle, he changed. The tips of his hair were damp from the swim (20 laps, 40 lengths in total), and fat drops of water rolled down the path of his back, between his shoulder blades.

He let his hair dry in the midday heat, storming down London’s sidewalks. Back home, back in that creaking old house, he’d be locked up in four walls, with the air conditioning humming at full blast. Lemonade on tap.

He was due for a meeting at Kanata Industries. It was probably nothing, but the rumors had swirled for weeks. Maz Kanata, the figurehead for the financial district, was searching to do some good. To invest money into charities and public buildings. 

She chattered all the time. That nerdy kid, with the brown eyes and brown hair, who traced her finger slowly over phrases she adored, while her lips mouthed them. Sometimes in his dreams, her eyes didn’t remain on the page. Her eyes linked with his, and she spoke the words aloud.

“Not too far, said she,” he would dream her whispering.

Kylo shook his head. Such a sickness was destined for night dreams, not daydreams.

The Kanata building was of white stone and gold and glass. Older than the uniform office blocks of silver and gray.

“Go on in,” said the doorman.

“In the lift, top floor,” said the receptionist.

Clipping his visitor’s pass to his shirt pocket, he cleaned his glasses with the hem of his shirt, tucking it back into his pants. He undid his cuffs, rolling his sleeves up past his elbows.

The lift doors slid open.

Sunlight poured in from the left, through tall arched windows. Canvas paintings of the desert hung on oak paneled walls. An antique desk stood at the far of the room, angled away from the sunlight. Two sofas which were leather and button-backed, stood opposite one another in the center, a coffee table between them.

On it, Kylo saw as he sat, were flowers of a dark orange, their petals vivid in their color like the last moment of the sunset before the dusk.

The traffic and hubbub of London, distant.

A ring of the lift doors had Kylo looking round. The arrival had him jumping to his feet, his satchel swinging out and bumping against his leg.

The flowers toppled, wobbled, and crashed, water spilling on the dark wood. Kylo stared. Spilling something at home, damaging something, was cleaned up without a word but a look. Once, he’d cut his knuckles on some glass, and the look was shared between his mother and father. She’d been elected the following year.

“Shit,” he said into the silence.

“Not a problem,” said Miss Kanata, wearing not scruffy cut off shorts, but a knee-length skirt that looked like soft to touch, and a short-sleeved blouse. The top few buttons were undone. A light lick of sweat covered her collarbone. He’d seen that before, in the stuffy heat of the library, when she’d stood by the door to catch the fading wind, and had an inclination to lick it off her, and brush ice over her heated body. Cool her down; help her through this sticky heat that barely affected him, a child of buckwheat.

She approached the desk, pressing a button for intercom. She ordered a receptionist to come up and clean away the mess.

Words, but not a look as she focused her attention on him. Only a smile.

“Must be a shock to see me. I’m Rey, Rey Kanata.” She stuck out a hand. Dropped her hand to her side when he swallowed, not taking it. She sank into the office chair, leather and button backed like the sofas, but gleaming white. “I’m heading up the investments into charities and public buildings for my mother. Drink?”

“Not for me.” Kylo shifted on the sofa. The leather squeaked underneath him. “Why did you—”

He stopped at the inclination of her head and the raise of her eyebrows, indicating for him to continue. She leaned forward, tucking her chin against her palm.

“You can speak.”

“Sorry. Could you just explain to me why you thought to lie?” He didn’t know where he found the words, but he wasn’t ready to apologize for them. Rey, Miss  _Kanata_ , gave a small smile. Her brown eyes flicked over him, as they already had done before, and had him dreaming.

“I had to see if the library was worth the money and people act differently when they know money is sniffing around. Can you tell me you would’ve acted the same around me, would’ve been as honest as you were about the library’s management if you knew I was poised to invest in it on behalf of Maz Kanata?”

“No.” He would’ve been prepared. Delivered lectures to her about the inner workings of the library, shown her facts and figures. Not waxed lyrical about how he thought he’d found a home in its walls. Talked about how he was prepared to live forever in a shoe box apartment if it meant continuing to work there.

“So. Our conversations helped, Kylo. I knew someone believed in the library as much as me.” She smiled wider at that. Kylo blinked, dropping his gaze. The lift doors rang open, and a receptionist bustled inside, pressing kitchen towels to the dripping water and scooping up the broken shards of the vase. Miss Kanata’s attention never quite left him, even if she was thanking the receptionist or checking her computer.

“I didn’t shake your hand,” he said, when the receptionist was gone, though he avoided Miss Kanata’s eye. “That was – rude of me. I apologize. I just don’t like being touched.”

“Some people just don’t.”

There was something disarmingly, appealingly, comforting about her as a person. Miss Kanata.

“I’ll agree to an initial investment,” she said, and he looked up. The space between his brows creased, but she was looking at her computer, typing something. She nodded to her desk. “Leave your paperwork here, and I’ll have a look at it. See if the investment is viable to do long term.”

Kylo stood, unfastening the satchel and retrieving the papers.

“I’ll just leave them on the coffee table—”

She turned her head towards him then. Her head tilted, just a little. To the right.

“On the desk, please.”

He walked towards the desk without complaint, without words. No second thoughts. Just the immediate thought: do as she said, as she asked.

Her smile returned. He felt himself, only a little, return it, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. Swallowing, he stuck out his hand.

“Good afternoon, Miss Kanata.”

She glanced between his hand and his eyes. Smile widening, she took it.

Her hand was rougher than he assumed. Not a businessman’s hand. A worker’s hand. Someone who tinkered with something. Held tools, and wielded them expertly.

She let go, leaning back into the leather office chair. Slowly, she crossed her legs, one over the other.

“I don’t think I’m quite ready for this to be our last meeting, Ren. For today,” she added, her eyes twinkling. They shone as much as they did when she mouthed along to her favorite words and told him childhood stories from memory. “Would you be able to join me for coffee?”

The word rolled around in his mouth, the single syllable fitting against his tongue. His eyes still on hers, he smudged his thumb over his bottom lip.

“Yes, Miss Kanata.”


	271. Mummies. (The Mummy AU, Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> introspectivenavelgazer asked for Sherlolly and #102 from the drabble list: "You hear that? That's the sound of my awesomeness!" I was watching 'The Mummy' when I got the prompt, so this cracky-as-hell AU was born. I'd describe it as an SWP, a story without plot. Just my favourite scenes from The Mummy stitched together into a patchwork of barely there cohesiveness.
> 
> Part 1 of 2.

“You see,” Molly began, gingerly stepping over Greg, currently lying in the dirt and cradling his jaw, “what my, um, colleague and I wished to know – that is, we wanted to ask – this artifact, how did you obtain it?”

The man behind the bars of the visitor’s pen rolled his eyes. Shadows crossed his face in slats. “Oh for God’s sake, be honest. You want to know how to get to Hamunaptra.”

“I – how do you know the artifact leads to Hamunaptra?”

“I was there when I found it.”

Molly Hooper gaped, then frowned, a shot of jealousy running through her about this man, how he managed to get to the city she had dreamt of since she was a child, that had fuelled her father to the last, fuelled her even now. And he was before her, treating the City of the Dead as it were merely Cairo, or the South of France.

Sensing balance had been lost in the conversation, Molly squared her shoulders and cleared her throat. At her feet, Greg clambered up, rubbing his jaw and squinting in a sort of half glare at the prisoner before them both.

“You punched me.”

“You stole my artifact,” came the retort.

“So you’ve been to Hamunaptra,” Molly said, slipping a glare to Greg. “Could you tell us how to get there?”

The prisoner, a tall man, his dark hair damp at the nape of his neck and at his temple, did not possess a usual handsomeness, spoken about in every history book she had read. Nothing about him would lead to handmaidens fainting, or villages surrendering to him at the sight of his nobleness. Not that she ever believed that sort of hokum. It was all claptrap, just like the tales spun about mummies and corpses awaken from the dead. The prisoner approached the bars of the pen, his eyes still on her. Molly shifted, swallowing. 

“Can you?” she asked again, her voice softer. “Can you tell me how to get to Hamunaptra?”

“Come closer.”

“Oh, um.” Molly flicked her eyes towards Greg, back to the prisoner. She swallowed thickly, already stepping forward. “Okay.”

“Molly,” warned Greg quietly, nervously. “You don’t—”

Suddenly, the prisoner’s fingers held her jaw and she was tugged forward, the iron bars hot on her cheek and the prisoner’s lips on hers, _kissing_ her—

“Oh for heaven’s sake!” Molly dropped her thus far ignored biography of Seti the First on the bed and grabbed her hairbrush, tugging it through her hair, muttering to herself. “It was just a kiss, and not even that good of a one! What’s the matter with you?”

A kiss that he had only used, anyway, as a deductive tool. A lover or a sibling, he’d concluded as they’d walked through the crowd at the Cairo docks, would’ve demanded the strongest punishment possible, rather than giving a single punch to the jaw.

Rolling her shoulders, she stared at herself in the ship’s mirror. The evening’s boat journey had brought with it a strong ocean wind. The candle by her bed flickered with the breeze, the pages of her book flapping.

Lying on her bed, Toby, the ship’s cat, mewled as he stretched. Unlike the rival archaeologist, Molly had taken more of a liking to Toby. He wasn’t obstinate, wasn’t brash or arrogant like Holmes was.

“Not worth thinking about,” Molly said, scratching between Toby’s ears. “Honestly, if he didn’t know the way to Hamunaptra, and we had a whole map to ourselves, I wouldn’t ever have agreed to taking him along.”

Molly, however, was rather inclined to revoke her belief when she was pinned against the wall by the hand hook of a gnarly-faced assassin.

* * *

 

 

Hearing the scream coming from Miss Hooper’s quarters, Sherlock sprinted along the barge.

Turning right, Sherlock ran down the corridor, passing doors. Coming to Miss Hooper’s quarters, he kicked open the door. She was pinned to the wall, struggling against an assassin’s grip. The assassin snarled as he held her up by the neck. His hook pressed against her cheek, close to her throat.

Seeing him, the assassin immediately spun her around, holding her by the neck. Immediately, a second assassin appeared at the window. Sherlock shot wildly along the wall, fire engulfing the sofa, roaring through the quarters. Behind him, he heard the first assassin wail. Turning, he saw Miss Hooper stood before him in her nightgown, holding a now extinguished candle.

“Time to go.” Grabbing her hand, Sherlock steered from the room. The ship’s cat sprinted after them, Molly scooping it up under one arm. Sherlock gaped at her.

“Seriously? The cat?”

“Well I can’t – the map! The map, the map!” Molly immediately spun on her heels, sprinting towards the room. “I forgot the bloody map!”

“I’m your map,” Holmes snapped, tugging her back, charging through the corridor. “Watson will find us, come on!”

Reaching the end of the corridor, Sherlock brought out his pistol from his holster, peering out at the main space of the ship. Assassins had swarmed the whole ship, the fire roaring through the whole of the ship, screams overwhelming the flames. Men threw themselves into the ocean, attackers and attacked alike, swimming hurriedly for the shore. At the helm of the ship, an assassin was stood, firing on the passengers. Sherlock aimed. A round of shots had him screaming, tumbling towards the barge.

“You hear that, Miss Hooper?” he said, grinning and breathless as he tucked himself against the wall, reloading his pistol. Gunshots flew in his ears. "That’s the sound of my awesomeness.”

Suddenly, he found himself tugged to his right, Miss Hooper’s small hand clutching his shirt. He frowned at her.

“You see that?” she said, gesturing to the wall behind him. A line of stray bullet holes. If she hadn’t pulled him out of the way, he’d have been a dead man. “That’s  _my_  awesomeness!”


	272. Mummies. (The Mummy AU, Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of 2. 4k+ words of nonsense.
> 
> Two quick things to note:  
> \- Salama Dey = Sally Donovan  
> \- Lestrade's character here is really a mashup of BBC Lestrade and the character Rupert Graves played in Doctor Who's "Dinosaurs on a Spaceship".

**Passenger ship, the River Nile, Egypt, 1926**

If he allowed the conventions of society to define his standards, Molly Hooper was not a pretty woman. Compared to the beauty shown in film reels, she was plain and superficially forgettable. 

Yet, she stood before him, eyebrows raised up towards her hairline, her mouth pressed into a thin line, with her hair combed back into a bun at the low of her neck, he found her to be uncommonly pretty.

“A deductive tool?” Miss Hooper gathered up her book and magnifying glass, turning on her heel. She stormed down the way of the barge, towards her quarters. Sherlock stared after her.

It was her eyes that had done it. Made him accept her offer, to travel with them (for that was what she had been offering, from the moment she’d set foot in the prison, an offer driven by ambition). He did not know what it was about them, nor the how of how they’d caught him so. It was something yet to be deduced, he knew.

“Ow!” 

The yelp caught his attention. 

Turning, Sherlock watched a set of crates, piled in twos underneath a set of stairs. One of the crates shifted. Sherlock advanced forward. Reaching back behind the crates, he grabbed the scruff of the intruder’s neck and pulled them forward. One of the crates toppled, falling with a hard thud while Sherlock slammed the intruder against the ship’s wall.

“My old friend, Barry Berwick,” he said with a smile. Berwick, still with shaved head and permanently furrowed brow, cocked a grin, wrestling against the grip of Sherlock’s hand, trying to slide out from underneath. Sherlock caught him again, pressing his forearm to Berwick’s chest.

“Now, now. I saw some Americans boarding this ship at the port. New friends?”

“What you—” On Sherlock’s roll of his eyes, Berwick cleared his throat, correcting himself, “What do you mean, Mr ‘olmes? I ain’t – haven’t – seen nobody.”

“Lestrade has made friends with those Americans, and they let slip, as did he, their intended location: Hamunaptra. Only two people on this boat have been to Hamunaptra. You are one of them. You’ve never been a man of great intelligence, so I’m sure I can guess the scam. Take their money and lead them out into the desert to rot, correct?”

“No!” Berwick wriggled. “No, Mr ‘olmes, nah! They’re smarter than tha’.”

Sherlock smirked. Amazing that Berwick had managed to cultivate a career as a conman when he failed to lie quite so easily. But then, tourists eager for gold were willing to look past any idiosyncrasies if it meant wealth beyond their wildest dreams. The wildest of tales could contain the largest of plot holes and no-one would blink an eye.

Realising the implication of his words, Berwick sagged against the ship wall.

“These Americans are smart. They’ve only paid me half – got to get them back to Cairo before I get the full amount.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, stepping back. “A pity for you.”

“You vowed never to go back anyway,” Berwick said after a moment, narrowing his eyes. “That dig – what you seen – you said you’d rather be hung than go back.”

“The word is ‘hanged’. Goodbye, Barry.” Gripping Berwick’s shirt, Sherlock dragged him towards the edge of the boat and threw him over.

“Mr ‘olmes!” Berwick spluttered in the water, roaring up at the ship. “Mr ‘olmes!”

Sherlock turned his head at the sound of a scream. Female. Coming from the quarters. Sherlock’s grin faded.

“Miss Hooper.”

He broke into a sprint.

* * *

 

On the other side of the River Nile, the Americans gathered horses on the bank, yelling for their colleagues. In the distance, the passenger ship continued to burn.

“I can’t believe it!” Molly gasped, stroking Toby’s wet fur, shaking and furious. She hushed him, taking breathless gasps, the taste of the ocean still on her tongue. “It – it happened so quickly… we’ve – we’ve lost everything! The equipment, my tools…”

She shivered, her breath shaking. A hand gently hovered at her shoulder, long fingers brushing over her skin. Glancing up, she watched as Holmes sank into a crouch at her side. His hand trailed down towards her elbow. He helped her to her feet, a touch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“HEY! MR ‘OLMES!” Molly and Holmes looked up at the same time. A shaven man, broad-shouldered, stood ankle-deep in the water as the Americans hurried their horses to the shore. “LOOKS LIKE I’VE GOT ALL THE ‘ORSES!”

Holmes slowly walked forward towards the riverbank. His eyes narrowed, staring at the man.

“Hey Berwick!” he shouted finally, in a mocking approximation of the man’s accent. “Looks to me like you’re on the wrong side of the river!”

A look of realisation came over the man. He swore, kicking at the water, turning and hurrying up to the bank. Molly bit back a smile, swallowing her laughter until it was a slight giggle. Hearing her, Holmes grinned. John Watson, Sherlock’s assistant (though he seemed perturbed by the term whenever Holmes used it), rolled his eyes.

“So…” Lestrade said, slumped in the sand, wiping his eyes. “What do we do now?”

* * *

 

Finding shelter at a Bedouin trading post, it was with ease that the four slipped into their respective duties. John inspected his gunny-sack, eyeing the small boys and adult men who looked over his weaponry with suspicion, ever the soldier. Miss Hooper set about charming the women of the trading post so much that they ushered her inside and insisted on fitting her a new outfit, free of any charge, and Sherlock sat alone with only Toby as company, idly listening to Lestrade’s one-sided argument about the economy of buying four camels.

“I just want four!” he shouted fruitlessly, as the seller shook his head for the fifth time. “Four! Just—”

“For God’s sake, pay the man Lestrade,” Sherlock called. “We have to be travelling by nightfall at  _least._ ”

Lestrade grumbled, fetching out his wallet, snapping it open. With money in his hand, the seller happily handed over the camels. Lestrade glared at Sherlock; shrugging, Sherlock stood and took two of the camels by the reins.

“He offered the camels for free in exchange for Molly. Not on your life obviously, but having just paid that amount of money,” Lestrade grumbled, “tempting.”

At that moment, the flaps of a tent opened behind them, and a train of women hurried out.

“Awfully,” Sherlock said, quirking an eyebrow, though his smile faded as he turned to face the tent and the chatter of the veiled women. Miss Hooper was at the back of the crowd, dressed in suitable black. A veil of thin fabric covered the lower half of her face. Her eyes shone warmly.

“Awfully…” Sherlock repeated, softer than before.

Thanking the women, Miss Hooper approached him and Lestrade. Her brown eyes shined, her smile hidden behind the fabric.

“Shall we go?”

Sherlock caught himself, clearing his throat, shifting his weight. “Yes, of course. Here. A camel, for you. We have to get going. I’ll fetch Watson.” He turned on his heels. “Watson!”

* * *

 

**Hamunaptra, Ancient City of the Dead, Egypt, 1926**

**Day 1**

Though they reached the site first, it was numbers that led to the American expedition gaining the most space for a dig. Miss Hooper had thus decided upon a crevice near the statue of Anubis as their starting point. Sherlock stood before it as she and Lestrade worked. He gazed up at the sand-dusted stone. Berwick, for all his idiocy, was right. He had vowed never to come back.

Sherlock glanced over at Miss Hooper. She saw him and immediately smiled. A genuine, sweet smile while stood underneath a statue carrying a mystery he still didn’t know the answer to. Perhaps he was always destined to return.

Perhaps she had been destined to make him return.

Avoiding her eye, Sherlock turned away, wandering through the ruins. 

The American’s camp was mostly run by their Egyptologist and the local diggers they had hired. The Americans themselves were like their government; sat on the sidelines, playing poker on a small trestle table and smoking cigarettes. A toolkit was laid forgotten beside one of the tents. Their attention on the game, Sherlock grabbed the kit and hurried away.

Seeing him return, Miss Hooper grinned. She was working with a rounded mirror, antique and rusted at the edges, shifting it so it consistently caught the glint of the sun. Lestrade, stood opposite her, was doing the same.

“The ancient mirror trick, correct?” Sherlock asked. Miss Hooper’s grin widened.

“Yes, Mr Holmes.” Her eyes narrowed at the kit in his hands. “What’s that?”

“You mentioned you didn’t have any tools. The Americans seem to be overrun with tools, so I thought—” Sherlock sighed, shoving it towards her.

“Oh.” Miss Hooper blushed briefly, the tops of her cheeks going pink, as she gently held the kit in her palm. She unrolled it, glancing over the contents inside. She bit her bottom lip. “Thank you.”

Sherlock dodged past her, hurrying towards John, sitting at their campsite in front of his tent, writing in his journal. Penning the day’s events. A tedious pastime, but they’d had that argument a hundred times.

“Other men buy their women flowers.”

“She’s not my woman, she’s nothing but an aspiring archaeologist too hung up on Bembridge. You’re always telling me to help others.” Sherlock ducked inside his tent, only to find Toby curled up on his sleeping bag. Picking up the creature, he held it between his hands, dropping it inside Miss Hooper’s tent, ignoring the brief catch of her scent in his nostrils sinking into his memory. Toby immediately mewled, shooting out from Miss Hooper’s tent and back into Sherlock’s.

Sherlock glowered, stomping back towards his tent. “And it’s only the men without imagination who buy women _flowers_ , John.”

* * *

 

**Hamunaptra, Ancient City of the Dead, Egypt, 1926**

**The second night**

Molly worried her bottom lip, her brown eyes flicking up to meet Holmes as he wandered closer to the campfire.

“How’s John?” she asked softly.

“Unconscious, but alive,” Holmes replied, sitting beside her. He rubbed his hands together, holding them to the flames. Molly rested her head against his shoulder, taking a deep breath.

“I’m sorry it happened,” she murmured.

“We weren’t to know scarabs were wandering around the temple,” Holmes said, an attempt at amusement, but it didn’t really take. “The wounds on his shoulder will heal soon anyway. Lestrade, I forgot to say – good quick thinking.”

“War taught me a thing or too,” Greg said, leaning back. He grabbed his satchel, opening it. From it, he bought a bottle of wine. “How to appreciate things, for one. Glenlivet, 12 years old. A vintage year, I pride myself on good taste. Anyone fancy a bit?”

“Not really.”

“No,” said Molly, overlapping Holmes’ dry reply.

“Each to their own,” Greg shrugged, swallowing back a gulp of the wine.

Suddenly, Holmes looked around, alert. A split second after him, Molly heard it. 

The approaching sound of horse hooves. 

Mr Holmes brought out his pistol, standing.

“Stay here,” were his only words. He ran towards the entrance of the city and the sound. Molly was up not a moment later, chasing after him. She heard Greg behind her, calling her name.

“Molly! Stop! Holmes said to stay—”

Hollering sounded. Loud black-clad figures bursting out from the evening on black horses. The Americans scrambled to wake at the sound of the raid, shooting at their attackers. Molly dived behind a column. Greg, holding tightly to his bottle of wine, ducked behind the column next to her. From the inside pocket of his jacket, he brought out a small gun. Gunshots sounded, from both sides. Black-clad attackers fell, diggers scrambled, the Americans screamed as they charged, shooting.

“Hadha yafki!” The yell called over the fighting, authoritative and firm. She frowned, peeking out from behind the column. Holmes was in the middle of the fray, his pistol at his side, staring at the one who had spoken.

They walked forward. A veil covered their mouth. They were smaller in height, leaner than the men who surrounded them, yet they were the one who exuded, demanded, authority.

They pulled back their veil. Tight curly black hair was pulled back into a bun. A woman. She had a striking essence to her, her long face and curved jaw beautiful. Arabic symbols, tattoos, covered the high of her cheeks, underneath dark eyes. A scimitar was at her hip.

“My name is Salama Dey,” she announced to the two camps. Molly walked forwards, down the shallow slope towards Holmes. His hand reached out for her as she reached him. She clasped it tightly, her other hand holding his forearm. She watched the woman, Salama, stare at them and the Americans.

“You have one day to leave this place,” she said, glancing at her troops. She returned to her horse, gripping its reins and mounting it. She gave one final glance over both camps. “We’ll spill no more blood. But heed my warning.”

The woman clicked her tongue, calling in Arabic for her men to follow.

“Proves it!” said one of the Americans, Henderson, square-jawed and blonde. “Seti’s fortune’s gotta be under this sand. No way they’d protect it if it had nothing.”

“Are you truly that idiotic?” Sherlock snapped. “Those people live in the desert. Water is more precious to them than any gold.”

A silence filled the camp. Letting go of Sherlock, Molly headed back up towards the campsite.

“Have to say,” Greg said from behind, following on. “That’s one hell of a woman, that Salama, don’t you think?”

Molly, smiling, rolled her eyes.

As they arrived, Watson, bleary-eyed, stumbled out from his tent. He was topless, his right shoulder swathed in bandages. He gave a slack smile when he saw Molly. She gave one in return, sitting by the fire, stoking it.

“I heard gunfire…”

“A raid,” she explained, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders and reaching for a thick volume, flipping it open. “I think it was the Medjai. I’ve read about them before. Warriors, far more skilled beyond any of us. Even you, Mr Watson.”

Watson winced as he sat opposite her, his face reflected yellow by the campfire. “Since our little incident with the scarabs – or should I say, my incident – I’m willing to believe that.”

A wine bottle entered both their vision. Molly looked up, instinctively smiling at Greg. His eyes glittered.

“Anyone willing to take that drink now?”

Molly took the wine bottle, gulping it back, passing it on to John. Greg settled opposite them, stretching out on his sleeping mat, crossing his ankles, tucking his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes.

“Rough day.”

* * *

 

**Hamunaptra, Ancient City of the Dead, Egypt, 1926**

**The third night**

The problems included with including treasure hunters on an archaeological dig were threefold. The first: treasure hunters never stopped long enough to consider the history they were digging into. The second: archaeologists, too delved into history books, were disinclined to believe anything besides what they could see. 

The third was more of an inevitability than a problem: when the two cultures came together, as the Americans and Molly Hooper’s party decided to do after the raid, something was bound to go wrong.

Molly gasped, breathless and trembling, frozen against the chamber wall. Mr Burns crawled along on the floor, empty spaces where his eyes and tongue had once been, no tears coming despite the pained wailing.

The mummy, the monster, a skeleton of papyrus and bone, his stolen eyes and tongue moving oddly with the rest of him, alive where the rest was dead. He approached her slowly, intent in his flickering eyes.

“Anck-su-Namun,” he growled, his voice beyond the world.

Molly’s throat went dry.

“Please…” she whispered. The mummy inched closer, and closer. Her eyes flicked towards Mr Burns in her desperation. “Please help me…”

“Molly!” She whipped her head round. Through an entrance, Holmes ran into the dark chamber. He carried his pistol, reaching out for her. “Do you think it’s really necessary to –  _Jesus!_ ”

He jumped, shuddering, his grip briefly tightening on her hand as he stared. Breathless, they stared at the slowly advancing mummy.

“Molly! Holmes!” Greg rushed in, the dark was lit orange by the flame of his torch. He stumbled back as the mummy turned on him, roaring and growling, his stolen eyes swivelling. Suddenly, his skeleton burst apart, collapsing to the ground. Sherlock’s pistol smoked.

Molly grabbed his hand tighter.

“Come on!” she yelled, tugging him away, down the labyrinth of corridors. “Move!”

She ran, one hand holding Holmes, the other flailing out for Greg, not caring where she was going. Get away, get hidden—

They stumbled out into the cool desert night, into a line of Medjai. All of them had their rifles aimed at the entrance to the temple, to them. Molly yelped, sinking closer to Holmes. His arm held her waist, glaring at the Medjai.

One of the Medjai pulled down their scarf. Salama’s eyes flashed angrily.

“I warned you,” she said, lowering her rifle, stepping forward. “Leave or die. And because of your arrogance, you have given us all death sentences. This is a creature we’ve feared for 3,000 years.”

The Americans cocked their weapons, but Salama only smiled.

“Your mortal weapons will do him no damage, believe me.” She aimed a hard look at the Americans. “Look what happened to your friend.”

At once, two Medjai came forward, carrying Mr Burns. Molly winced, looking away. Under the moonlight of the camp, his wounds were worse, more horrifying. Henderson and another rushed forward to take him from the Medjai, Henderson cradling him. Burns moaned helplessly in his mind.

“You did this?” Henderson spat.

“The creature did,” Salama said. “And we saved him before he could finish the work. So I tell you again: leave or die. I hope that this time, you obey.”

* * *

 

**British fort, Cairo, Egypt, 1926**

Packing for Molly Hooper was a thankless task. As he threw into her trunk what he could of her now scant possessions, she would take them out. If he tried again, she would take them out again, in between hurriedly scanning pages and pages of history books. Sherlock picked Toby up off the few remaining clothes in the trunk, dropping him outside the bedroom door. Discontented, Toby ran back in, mewling furiously and jumping on the bed.

“Forget it,” Sherlock said, sighing, “I fully intend on obeying Miss Dey.”

“What, while a 3,000-year-old walking, talking corpse threatens to destroy the Earth?” Molly scoffed. “We woke him up, Holmes, we  _need_  to stop him!”

“You read the book, Miss Hooper—”

“Fine! I read the book, I released him, and  _I_  am going to stop him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you cannot stop a mummy!” Sherlock said. “No mortal weapon can kill him, you heard the woman.”

“Then we’ll find some immortal ones,” Molly replied, snatching her books from his grasp, some of them tumbling to the floor. Molly dived down to her knees, gathering them up to her chest. “I know that sounds ridiculous, but if it’s the only way we can stop him, then that’s the only way we can stop him.”

Sherlock frowned. “Again with the ‘we’.”

“From what I’ve read so far, this curse isn’t going to end well for anyone. Look, here!” She flipped open a thin mummification volume, scratched with inked notes in the margins, settling on a page. She pointed at the Egyptian writing, holding it up to his nose. Sherlock frowned, snatching it from her, reading it himself.

“You see?” Exasperated, Molly rubbed her forehead, slapping her palm on the page so that he was forced to look away, into her eyes. “‘Once the creature has been reborn’,” she recited, “‘his curse will spread until the whole of the Earth is destroyed’—”

“Molly!”

She stopped, startled by his use of her name. Sherlock hesitated to touch her, settling his hand on her upper arm. She’d changed from the black dress of the Bedouin; now she wore a white shirt, a cream desert skirt and her nostrils flared with determination.

“You are talking about saving the world. Not history. Not gaining enough experience in the field to impress Bembridge—”

“I’m not—”

“Saving the world.”

“I raised the mummy. You saw the mummy. You know what he could do.” Her eyes widened, beseeching. “Don’t you? Please, Sherlock. Help me.”

Sherlock sighed, running his hand through his hair. Snaking his arm around her shoulder, he pulled her against his chest, holding her close.

The door opened, and Sherlock jumped away from Molly, looking round at the entrant, Greg, closely followed by Watson.

“What is it?” Molly asked, flicking her gaze towards Sherlock. Greg looked pale, but Watson spoke, face grey with dread.

“There’s something you two need to see.”

Heading towards the closed window, Watson threw open the shutters. Sunlight flooded the room, as well as heat. Flames, fire and hail, poured from the sky.

There was trouble, Sherlock thought, and then there was raising-the-dead kind of trouble.

—

Surviving water turning into blood was one thing. Witnessing the horror of the undead creature Imhotep kissing an asleep Molly Hooper was another. Watson dived forward, rifle raised.

“Get off her.”

Molly, her eyes snapping open, shrieked, shoving away the monster, scrambling off the bed, tumbling to the floor. 

Imhotep, his half-skeletal, half-decayed face twisting with a growl, advanced on the three men. Watson fired, again and again, but Imhotep continued forward, hatred in his eyes.

“Uh,” Greg asked, “anyone have ideas?” 

“Just one,” Sherlock replied. Turning, he ran into the foyer. Toby lay on the table, tail swishing idly. Grabbing the cat, thankful for the first time of its presence, Sherlock sprinted back into the bedroom.

He grinned at the advancing Imhotep.

“Look what I have!” He held up the wriggling Toby, who stilled at the sight of Imhotep.

 Imhotep screamed a primordial roar, a snarl. Toby hissed, screeched, yowling until, all at once, sand engulfed the bedroom, a high wind drawing through the air, as if it might suck them all out into the streets of Cairo—

The window shutters slammed closed.

In the silence, Sherlock looked to Molly.

“Are you okay?”

Molly shrugged. “I’m alright… apart from an undead mummy kissing me.” Her eyes lightened with an idea. “But I do now have a good idea of who can help us. C’mon.”

Following her out of the room, Sherlock smiled despite it all.

* * *

 

**Museum of Antiquities, Cairo, Egypt, 1926**

“You?” Molly jerked to a stop on entering the curator’s office, aghast with surprise at the sight of Salama Dey in whispering, urgent talks with her. Lady Smallwood raised an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest.

“You cannot tell me you are not surprised, Molly. I told you when you first arrived I would give my life for Egypt. Now, what do you want?”

“The – the, um, tablets,” Molly answered, blinking away her surprise. “I obviously proved the theory right, at Hamunaptra, that the Book of Dead can bring the dead back to life. But I think, if the black book can do that, then the gold book—”

“The Book of Amun-Ra,” Lady Smallwood said pointedly. Molly nodded.

“Yes. I think that might be able to kill him.”

“Well theorised.” Lady Smallwood stood, fetching a set of keys from her desk drawer. “Come. I’ll lead you to them.”

It was at the top of the steps that they heard it. Soft at first, distant. Chanting, seemingly wordless. As the chanting inched closer, the word formed on the lips of the people, their skin covered in boils and sores.

“Imhotep,” they chanted. “Imhotep—”

“My least favourite plague,” Greg muttered from behind Molly, as they gathered at the window above the city square outside the museum.

“This is it then,” Salama said, her voice filled with dark dread. “The beginning of the end.”

“Not quite yet,” said Greg brightly, earning a glare from the Medjai leader for his troubles. He flashed her a grin in return.

“You can leave the ‘I told you so’ for later,” Watson added, following Molly as she turned on the balls of her feet, hurrying towards the display cases, behind which were fragments of stone tablets. Lady Smallwood swung open the doors, and Molly immediately began to frantically scan the tablets.

“Okay, okay… Bembridge scholars indicate that the Book of Amun-Ra is buried at the base of Anubis, but that’s where we found the black book, so—”

“Looks like the boys of Bembridge were mistaken,” Greg grinned.

“Seems they mixed the books up,” Molly explained, still frantically reading, her finger running along the hieroglyphics. “They got the locations wrong – so if the black book is inside Anubis, then the golden book…”

“Molly, hurry up!”

“I am, Greg, I am!”

Below, the doors smashed open.

“No, I mean – really – hurry up!” The chanting was louder than ever, mixed in with roars, the pursuit of the hunt. Greg, along with Sherlock and Salama, glanced over the balcony. The people of Egypt, now no more than shells, Imhotep’s slaves, were advancing up the long winding stairs, smashing their way past artefacts, crushing them underneath their feet.

Greg edged closer to her. “Molly, you’ve got to hurry—”

“Oh Greg, will you shut up for five minutes?”

“Not really!”

“Patience is a virtue,” she replied, her voice sing-song, bouncing on her toes, still reading.

“Not right now, it isn’t!” said Sherlock from behind her, eyes still on what was going on below.

“The front entrance is blocked,” Salama said. She gestured to Greg, beckoning. “You, with me and the American. We’ll go the back way.”

“Happy to!” Greg hurried to follow Salama, pushing the astonished American in front of him, down the path of the landing. As soon as they were out of sight, Molly yelled in delight.

“Ha! I’ve got it! The golden book of Amun-Ra is buried at the base of the statue of Horus!” She pumped the air, beaming as she turned towards Sherlock. “Bembridge can go  _stuff_  themselves!”

“Strong words,” Sherlock smirked, grabbing her hand. “Time to go, Miss Hooper.”


	273. Repose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> violetjersey asked for a combination of 54 (“Why’s there a pregnancy test in the trash?”) & 62 (“I warned you. He warned you. Your freaking mum warned you”) from a drabble list meme I did on Tumblr a while ago.

“I warned you, Sherlock,” Molly sighed. Mycroft sat on the sofa, legs crossed at the ankle and his fingers twirling his umbrella. Molly gestured to him. “He warned you. Your mum warned you, for heaven’s sake. And she’s the most tolerant woman I’ve ever met.”

“It takes a lot for her to anger, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his voice softening for only a moment.

“I was only acting as a caddy,” Sherlock hissed, wincing as he shifted in his armchair, holding his bicep. Molly worried at her bottom lip, then shook her head, folding her arms at her waist, hugging herself. “For heaven’s sake, it was only a graze.”

“Of a bullet,” Mycroft reminded him, stern once more. “The job risks involved with being a golfing caddy do go up slightly when caddying for an internationally known crime boss, dear brother.”

“Exactly,” Molly spat. It’s been two weeks, would no doubt be his reply, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t stopped being cross with him. A ‘graze’ when his right shoulder was swathed in bandages. Her fingers brushed secretly over her hip, her thumb tracing her belly.

To be fair, Mycroft hadn’t helped in remarking that clients were probably put off by the bandages, which was possibly why Sherlock was more eager than ever to have them off. 

Molly rolled her eyes, entering Baker Street’s kitchen.

“Miss Hooper, may I ask a question?”

Pausing in the kitchen entryway, Molly frowned. She turned, tilting her head at Mycroft.

“I suppose so.”

“Why’s there a pregnancy test in the bin? In the bathroom,” he added, gesturing with his umbrella. Molly went pale, then coloured, though more from rapidly rising anger than embarrassment.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said calmly, after a silence, “that is our business. We didn’t elect to tell anyone for a reason.”

“The reason being the crime boss in question?”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock snapped, looking his brother fully in the face. “Molly’s pregnancy is not a bargaining tool for you to use. Or for anyone to use.”

Molly swallowed, colouring, though more from rage than embarrassment. Mycroft coolly raised an eyebrow, deliberately ignorant to the outrage. Molly bit down hard on her lip, focusing on stilling her trembling fingers. If she focused on that, she might not focus quite so much on the ideal place to punch Mycroft Holmes, ultimate man of authority and her eventual child’s uncle, in the face.

“Very well. Good afternoon, Sherlock. Miss Hooper,” Mycroft said, standing. Molly glared, along with Sherlock, as he left. Mycroft stopped by the doorway, turning his head towards her. “My apologies. I did not mean to offend quite so much. Miss Donovan tells me I still have difficulty making jokes that are actually funny.”

Molly caught the name, and smirked, raising an eyebrow.

“Miss… Donovan?”

It was Mycroft’s turn to blush, the high of his cheeks turning pink.

“Good afternoon, Miss Hooper.” With a stiff nod, he hurried from the flat.

Molly turned on the balls of her feet, aiming a look at Sherlock. He slowly grinned, from ear to ear. Molly pointed at him.

“Don’t.”

“He used your pregnancy.”

She considered him. “Once. You can use it against him once. So make it a good one,” she added, sitting gently in his lap, careful to avoid his 'graze’. She rested one hand on his good shoulder, and settled the other in his hair, softly caressing his curls between finger and thumb. Sherlock hummed, tipping his head towards her. His lips brushed her temple in a soft kiss.

“Careful,” she admonished in a whisper, but her forehead tilted against his. “I’ll admit it. Can’t wait for those bandages to be off.”

“Neither can I,” Sherlock replied. His palm cradled her belly, her bump as yet unformed. Just a minute thing, but soon a human, a life, that they would raise.

“I love you,” Molly said, half-laughing, as she kissed her forehead. “Even when you are infuriating. No more caddying, right?”

“No. The only thing at my beck and call is you, Molly Hooper, and our child.” She kissed him deeply, her hand resting on his chest. Sherlock’s eyes flicked towards the bookshelf, the ring box tucked between two thick volumes. 

Hm. Yes. This was much better than golf.


	274. Talk Dirty (about those missile launchers) (Rey/Kylo Ren)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS FOR TLJ: Apparently Kylo Ren gets a brand spanking new TIE fighter in The Last Jedi, with more than enough room for two. So... my brain went to... straight to... TIE fighter sex.

“You know it looks like your father’s ship, don’t you?” she whispers in his ear, biting down on his earlobe. As they float on autopilot through the Deep Core, she grinds down against his hips, the bulge in his crotch. “Laser cannons, missile launcher. I know everything about this ship, Ren. Its weaknesses.”

She dares to sound wistful, even sad, about the fact. He holds her closer behind the rounded red glass of the cockpit, moaning in her mouth as they kiss in the Silencer. She is anything but silent as they kiss, claw, bite. This is how they battle.

Since he’d breached past madness and brushed his lips against hers, this is how they battle. She whispers out a name of a planet into the Force, and he finds her. They only have brief moments like this, before Hux arrives with a fleet at his side, and tries to bring the scavenger into custody. That is when the play begins, the battle long over, the taste of her still on his tongue.

He slaps her backside, making her jolt and still. He’s got braver, more in tune with what he likes, what she likes, since that first kiss and that first encounter, a brief scramble between two innocents.

They are everything together, but never innocent. Innocence was left behind a long time ago.

“Up,” he commands, sinking down as far as he can in the pilot seat. She will command him in time, pulling at his hair, gasping for him to go slower, harder, faster, straining for what only he can give her. And he will smile like a madman sickened while she does so.

She frowns down at him.

“Seriously?”

“Want to try something,” he says. “Stand with your feet either side of the seat. Use the Force if you have to.”

She does, holding herself in place. He gives her a little bit of the Force as well to support her, holding her hips in one hand and hugging the small of her back as she stands over him, back bent forwards over his head, her cunt centimetres from his lips.

In a normal TIE fighter, such adventures would be impossible. In a normal fighter, they would kiss and grind and gasp, but never do anything more. The engineers didn’t question him when he asked for a larger cockpit. They put it down to his size.

He darts his tongue against her folds. She sighs and relaxes, parting her thighs. He nips her inner thigh, just an inch away from her cunt; she yelps, then sighs, edging her wetness closer to his mouth. He pinches the skin of her hip between finger and thumb in return.

“Kylo,” she breathes, so domestically angry with him that the Light twinges inside him, and begs to be taken back with her to wherever the Resistance is based. He licks a stripe from the bottom of her folds towards her clitoris, quicker in pace than she is used to, and she gasps, squealing when he does it again, harder as if drinking her arousal. The thought still pervades, the Light still begs, so he presses his tongue into her again, nuzzling the tip of his nose against her clit. 

She is rocking against him in no time at all, aware as he is of Hux’s imminent arrival. It only spurs her on more, twitching against his tongue, chasing her orgasm. She is buckling, her Force use giving way underneath the wave of arousal, so he holds her body up for her while she screams his name over and over again. 

But Kylo doesn’t just want her on his tongue.

No.

This fighter was a gift, so Snoke proclaimed, and there is only one person in the universe who deserves to reap its benefits. He lets go of her with the Force, gently bringing her back down to his lap.

“I’ve always dreamed of doing this to you,” she says, biting on the last word. Him, No-one else. She has dreamed of no-one but him, who she would debase in this manner. He leans his head back, groaning as she moves her way past layers of robes and glides her palm over the leaking tip of his cock, smoothing his precum over his length.

She presses one hand to his shoulder, straddling her knees either side of his hips. She’s such a lean little thing, filled out since her days on Jakku, no longer kept half-starved by monsters like Unkar. Dead now, at his hand.

He gasps, the sound deep and throaty, as she slides his cock into her, seating herself well in his lap. He moves then, as much as he can, shifting his hips up as she rolls her hips, setting the rhythm of this encounter. With every roll of her hips, every pressing of her body to his, his cock slides deeper into her, taking more and more. He slides his gloved hand over her clit, leaning forward until his breath is on her neck.

“Come for me,” he begs. “Scavenger, come.”

“Name,” she gasps back.

There is a silence as he considers her request.

“Rey,” he whispers finally, and he sinks his lips against her collarbone, licking the bone and nibbling against it. She rocks and gasps, the pitch of her voice growing higher and higher, her foot sliding towards the controls. He catches her errant leg, tugging it up, changing the angle, and she falls back, catching herself with her hands on his knees, the soft of her belly crinkled as she rolls her hips once more.

He can only look at her in fascination, his cock sliding in and out of her in small thrusts as she, with sweat dampening the tendrils of hair at her forehead and temples, cries out against the stars.

She pants in the aftermath, her arms winding around his neck. He holds her in his lap, kissing her temple. She lazily lifts her head when he leans forward, still holding her, and works the controls, flipping switches. He feels her frown.

“You’re putting us into hyperdrive?”

“Mm.”

He feels her naked fingers on his chin and looks at her as she steers his head towards her.

“What are you doing?”

He slams a button, sinking back into the pilot’s seat. The Resistance will be victorious, soon enough. The First Order is crumbling from the inside. It’s why Snoke can waste his time with gifts such as TIE fighters.

And he is tired. He is tired of everything, save their battles.

“Leaving.”

She sighs, trembling in the silence, easing closer to him. He hears the beep of his tracker, deactivated. The stars shine blue over her pale skin.

“Okay.”


	275. In The Thick of It. (Sally Donovan & Molly Hooper)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> introspectivenavelgazer asked: "Sally Donovan Molly Hooper The Thick of It AU with Sally as Malcolm".
> 
> So this contains quite a bit of swearing.

Even if she was slightly intimidated, Molly Hooper knew she liked Sergeant Sally Donovan as soon as she quietly pushed open the door and made her jump about a foot in the air.

“Fucking fuck me,” she heard her murmur, hand at her chest as she shook her head, returning to her duty of shuffling papers. “Knock next time.”

“Sorry, don’t normally – come up here. Just dropping something off for Sherlock.” She hurried forward, hesitating when she held the file over the desk. She tilted her head at Sally. “Sorry, do you—?”

“No, no, don’t mind. Just got a to-do list as long as a fucking Leonard Cohen song. God that guy doesn’t shut up. My dad loved him, because of course. What’s the file for?” she added at the last, causing Molly to blink. Molly swallowed, placing the file neatly in the one empty space on the untidy desk.

“Um, don’t know the name. 50s, strangled, smoker, early onset throat cancer. Robbery victim. Sherlock thinks it could be pre-meditated. Well, he says it’s obvious, but you know what he’s like—”

“Oh, yeah. Freak gets off on that shit, making people feel as a small as a fucking microbe. I’ll just shove that in the in-tray, the boss can look at it in his own time. Shit, do you know the time?”

“12 o'clock.”

Sally’s stomach rumbled, on cue. “Good, it’s been a long bloody day and I need a fucking Twix. Coming?”

* * *

For all the time Molly picked at her packet of crisps and moaned about Christmas in the haze of the first day back after New Years, Sally nodded, quiet and song from her takeaway coffee. When Molly was finished, she tucked her foot against the rail of the lab stool, nodding and cracking open a sandwich. She shrugged. 

“Look, he’s intelligent, I’m not denying that. But for everything else, he’s like all blokes. Less useful than a marzipan dildo.”

Molly snorted. The snort bubbled into a giggle and became a laugh. 

“I’m always going to wonder where you get these similies from, Sal.”

Sally gave a sly grin. 

“Guess I’m just gifted.”


	276. Baby, Worship Me!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> introspectivenavelgazer asked: "Sherlolly, since you asked, and the song Worship by Lizzo".

_Hands to the sky, show me that you’re mine_   
_And baby, worship me_   
_Worship me_   
_On your knees_   
_Patiently, quietly, faithfully, worship me_

**~** **[Worship, Lizzo](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DKN_na84b9ik&t=YWI3OTFkMTA4ODY3Yjg0NjM0YzY1ZTczZTc5MWU1YmI4Y2M3NzFlNCxXQ0oxRWI4OQ%3D%3D&b=t%3An8iFsLsKFBxCJCBYz4Gfyg&p=http%3A%2F%2Fmollymatterrs.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163715334753%2Fsherlolly-since-you-asked-and-the-song-worship&m=1) **

Molly Hooper has a taste in music he’s not entirely used to. Mummy liked classical, even when it came to Christmas. God, how many times has he listened to some chinless wonder choir boy singing ‘Once in a Royal David’s City’ on the television, the carol undercut with bumbling from his father as he tries to push the Christmas tree through the cottage door.

Father likes jazz. He likes to sit with ankles crossed and hands on his belly, feet idly tapping along to the odd, jagged rhythm that takes him back to the dances he shared with Mummy at the dance hall. Sometimes he even persuades her to recreate them, when she’s lightheaded from Christmas sherry.

“Hands to the sky,” the record and Molly Hooper sings, muffled where he stands in the flat doorway, his glove halfway off his hand and a smile threading onto his lips. 

He shakes his head, tugs his gloves off, tucking them into his coat pocket and in one motion, kicks the door closed and throws his coat over her chair. 

In a moment, Sherlock picks it up again, throws the Belstaff over John’s old chair where another draft of her latest paper is also abandoned along with her laptop, humming away. 

He heads into the bedroom.

She is performing a striptease.

Not on purpose, it is late, the closed curtains shift with the low night wind coming through the half-open window, and he has been out later than planned on a case.

With an amused smile, Sherlock leans against the bedroom doorway. Clearly, this is her reward, phone docked and blaring music, for using the time to work on her paper.

(Is this their domesticity? He has no qualms.)

She is wearing her rattiest bra and her rattiest knickers. The knickers are plain black, supermarket bought. Mismatching bra, lace bobbled from washes.

“Hands to the sky, show me that you’re mine,” she sings, flicking off her sock and kicking it in the vague direction of the laundry basket, reaching around to work with the clasp of her bra.

“And baby worship me,” she sings with a rhythmic jerk of her head, flinging off her bra. She stops her dance for a moment, rolling her shoulders and stretching.

“Long day?”

She yelps, turning around, then gestures for him to wait a second. Her small, glorious tits bob as she hurries towards the dock and pauses the music. She slides her hands onto her hips, wearing nothing but her knickers, and purses her lips.

“A five?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Turned into a nine when I actually got to the scene and deduced about a hundred things they’d missed.”

“A normal day then.”

“Perfectly normal,” he says, picking up her discarded laundry and throwing it in the basket. He presses play, and the music starts playing again. 

Molly’s beautiful breasts rise and fall with a sigh, a small ‘hm’ noise accompanying the gesture, the noise coming from her rather thin, rather lovely mouth.

“What did it involve?” she asks as he steps closer, sliding his palm against her bare lower back.

He nuzzles her neck, kissing it before he answers. “Decapitated head, a goat and some arsenic.”

“Definitely normal.”

“Same old, same old,” he says with a grin against her skin. 

“I thought you only liked classical,” she says after a silence, as he sways with her in the bedroom as the song comes to a fading close. “Violin stuff.”

“On the contrary,” he says, leaning over and starting the song all over again. As the opening bars, the bright notes, fill the room, he curves his hands around her thighs and hauls her up. She giggles, arms around his neck, and drops a kiss on the tip of his nose.

“Show me that you’re mine,” the song sings, Molly humming from her throat along with the song. Her hum breaks with a laugh as the saxophone plays and he drops her onto the bed, sliding down onto his knees before her.

“This is on shuffle you know. And with my music taste—”

“Guess we’ll have to work with what we have,” he says.

(When Walking on Sunshine starts playing, that’s where he draws the line.)


	277. New Neighbours. (Rey/Kylo Ren, Modern AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thenworld asked: "prompt: “i'm a royal in hiding and you’re a civilian who lives in the same apartment complex as me, hi”"

“Kylo…”

“Do we have to use that name?”

“Yes,“ bites out Phasma, straight-backed and hands folded in front of her. She keeps her attention on the door, on all possible exits in and out of the flat, as her job demands she does. Kylo pushes his armchair forwards, to sit by the window, just to make her eye twitch.

Ben gives her a thin-lipped smile. “My mother thinks of everything, Phas.”

“Phasma.”

“Phas.”

“Your mother is a powerful woman, Kylo,” she says, brushing her long fingers through short blonde hair. “But not powerful enough.”

Ben taps the window, leaning back, taking in the London skyline. Grey buildings, covered in summer. Mikata had warned him not to get used to such weather.

“No 10-inch thick bulletproof glass?”

The reply is wordless; simply Phasma’s large hands on the back of his chair and the scrape of its legs, her strength tugging him back to the centre of the tiny flat.

Ben glowers, sinking further into the seat. “I take that as a yes.”

A clunk has them both moving; Phasma turning on her heel, covering him, Ben standing.

“Jesus, fucking – what wanker—” They both hear more swearing, not as creative as his father’s, remnants of his life before his entrance into royalty, then, an obnoxiously loud knock on the tiny flat door.

“I’ll open it,” Ben says to Phasma, pushing past the wall of woman, dedicated so much to her craft that she seems more character than human. “After all, Kylo Ren seems like he’d be the welcoming type.”

The obnoxious knock sounds again. Ben sighs, tugging open the door, gesturing for Phasma to step back, at his shoulder as she is.

“Afternoon,” he says, barely looking at the figure before him. Training has made him adept at taking in hundreds of faces and forgetting them without thought.

He is suddenly hit in the chest, his satchel thrust into his chest, and he stumbles back, barely holding onto the door handle. All at once, he takes in who is before him.

She is small, much smaller than him, lean, something of the countryside, or isolation at least, about her. It’s in the hazel brown eyes, the tangled hair scooped into a messy bun. She wears denim shorts, a loose-fitting white vest and there is sweat on her clavicle bone, and the peek of a pink lace bra from his vantage point.

A small girl, beautiful eyes, and a large temper. Proved as she heaves—small girl, big temper, amazing strength, he adds that to the list—bag after bag into the flat, past the threshold. Phasma’s eyes grow wider and bigger at each transgression of painfully laid out boundaries.

The girl with the beautiful eyes and strength turns towards him when she is done. A sheen of sweat on her brow has joined the shine on her clavicle bone. Ben feels uncomfortable in her presence, yet stands there still, dumb and holding his father’s satchel in his arms. 

“I’ll make you a deal: you, keep your shit out of the way of the corridors and me, I won’t have to move it for you. Understood?”

“Um…” It’s been so long since he has said ‘um’ that it feels foreign on his tongue. Makes him feel like another person entirely. “P-perfectly.”

She goes to leave, but he doesn’t want her leaving quite yet. He wants more than simply to remember her.

“What’s your name?” he blurts after her. Already at the door, she turns, glaring—but then her expression softens. She bites her bottom lip.

“Rey.” Her eyes flit towards Phasma, and she jumps. “Christ! I’m so sorry, I didn’t – I didn’t see you there. Are you—?”

She gestures with a finger between them.

“No!” barks Ben, dropping his satchel and hurrying forward, though, for what, he doesn’t know. “She’s just, um—" 

He runs his eyes over Phasma.

"My cousin. A, uh, distant cousin.”

“I’m helping him settle in,” Phasma lies smoothly, though clearly put out, a soldier of her calibre being reduced to merely the status of 'a cousin’.

“Oh. Then you can tell him how London etiquette works,” the girl, Rey, says, glancing towards him without friendliness, but more a pointed glare. Yet such a look doesn’t speak of resentment yet to come. More, as it lingers, it speaks of a curiosity.

He is very unfamiliar with these English customs.

“And your name?” she asks.

He flushes as he mumbles the name. Her tilting her head forces him to repeat the ridiculous moniker.

“Kylo?” She poorly hides a snort, unaware she is speaking to the only heir of a principality reaching back beyond the history of this grey island.

A meow makes him jump, and he looks down to find an orange-and-white cat slide through his half-closed flat door. Following the sound, Rey gasps and gathers the cat in her arms.

“Babette!” she gasps, scolding, scratching between the cat’s ears and earning a purr for her efforts. She glances to Ben and Phasma as she leaves. “Keep your shit out of the corridor, thanks! Bye!”

In the silence, Phasma sighs.

“Don’t. Even. Think about it.”


	278. 5 of 5. (I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a meme on Tumblr where my followers could send in the first sentence of a fic and a pairing, and then I would write the next five.

**mizjoely**  asked:  _Sherlolly, please. First sentence: Things were changing for the better._

> Things were changing for the better. 
> 
> He had explained, he had played for her the tune he played for his sister. She soothed him over the phone when the newly found memories of fire and flame loomed large in his dreams. Ella, not as bad as his brother presumes her to be, saw it. And with a sad smile, she asked him the one question he had avoided thus far, from all parties: “It  _was_  true, wasn’t it?”
> 
> He gave a smile of defeat and acceptance, one he had perfected, and replied with the answer he gave himself every moment he saw Molly Hooper’s face: 
> 
> “She’ll know – one day.”

* * *

 

 **introspectivenavelgazer**  asked:  _Pairing: Salcoft (I'm so fucking predictable) Line: 'You have a face like a confession booth. It's quite valuable," he said one night._

> “You have a face like a confession booth. It’s quite valuable,” he said one night.
> 
> Sally snorted, attaching the silencer to the end of her rifle. Her husband stilled as she rested the rifle on his shoulder, looking through her aim towards the open second-floor window.
> 
> “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.
> 
> “A secret agent who can’t extract secrets is like an assassin who can’t shoot straight,” Mycroft mused as the target, a corrupt member of the elite, fell back, a perfect shot to their head and their goons scrambled to flee. “Like a broken pencil and life without you – pointless.”
> 
> After a silence, Sally Donovan 007, smiled and gave her husband a curt reminder: “Commander, dear, not secret agent.”

* * *

 

 **fiammablade3466**  asked:  _ _Pairing: Sherlolly! Your first sentence is: "We don't talk anymore like we used to do..." Thank you so much! :)__  

> “We don’t talk anymore like we used to do.”
> 
> “How so?” he asks, tilting his head at her.
> 
> “Well, it’s just sex, sex, sex right now, isn’t it?” Fidgeting with the buttons on his shirt and cuddled up against his chest, she rubs her growing belly and sighs, shaking her head. “I’ll be so happy when my hormones sort themselves out.”
> 
> “Personally,”—he waggles his eyebrows, which has her laughing—“I’m quite enjoying the ride.”

* * *

 

 **fiammablade3466**  asked: _ __Ok, here is an other one... Pairing: Sherlolly "You play fair with me and I'll play fair with you"___

> _You play fair with me, and I’ll play fair with you. – SH_
> 
> Molly Hooper, Detective Inspector, stared at the crime scene, crumpling the note from Sherlock Holmes, the infamous cat burglar, in her leather-gloved fist. 
> 
> Sally raised an eyebrow. 
> 
> “Don’t let him get to you,” she said, half comfort, half warning. Molly shook her head, stuffing the note into her coat pocket. She turned on her heel, flicking up the collar of her coat.
> 
> “I won’t,” she said, “but I’ll get to him.”

* * *

 

 **thiscaringlark**  asked:  _ _ _ _sherlolly: It was the last thing Molly had expected.____

> It was the last thing Molly had expected.
> 
> A phone call which would expose her, cut into her flesh and remove all its parts, leaving behind only her heart, cracked, near broken.
> 
> She hadn’t expected the phone call. She hadn’t expected the line to hold on, as her brain raced, trying to hold onto the shattered parts of her previous peace. The last thing she expected was her hanging on as well, tears streaming down her face silently as she tried to cling to any hope this wasn’t some empty cruelty on his part.
> 
> The hope came in the form of a crash and roar, and her heart finally gave way.

* * *

 

 **fiammablade3466**  asked: _ _ __Pairing: Sherlolly "If I'm bothering you, just tell me and I'll stop"____  

> “If I’m bothering you, just tell me and I’ll stop.” 
> 
> Busy weighing a heart, Molly gives him a look, and he gives one in return; one of apology. 
> 
> “I’m sorry. That sounded less… sinister in my head.”
> 
> “It probably did.”
> 
> “Will cooking dinner make up for it?” he asks, and Molly beams, tilting her head.
> 
> “Hmm…” she teases him with that, tilting her head as she looks at him, drawing out the silence, “I think so.”

* * *

 

 **fiammablade3466**  asked:  _ _ _ _Sherlolly, please! (I'm an addicted XD) First sentence: There was something wrong in those words, something didn't sound right at all.____  

> There was something wrong in those words, something didn’t sound right at all.
> 
> “Say it again,” she said shakily, knowing she had to hear him speak it again; if only to savour it, in the smoke and dirt of the dying castle.
> 
> Her prince, Sherlock, looked sorrowful, desperate for forgiveness as he bent his knee to her, bowing his head. “I’m sorry.”
> 
> “No…” she breathed, a smile lighting up her dirtied features as she bent down, cupping his face with her hands, “the part where you said my name.”
> 
> He smiled, giving a laugh, and with a breath, said it: “Molly.”


	279. 3 by 3. (III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another session of the 'send me a pairing, an AU and I'll write a three-sentence fic in return' meme.

**~~~~****lariren-shadow**  asked:  _Reylo: meeting on a train AU_

> The train guard blows his whistle, and in the kiss that he presses to the back of her hand, she sees every encounter they’ve shared.
> 
> “Forgive me,” he murmurs, smiling a little and shrugging at her questioning look, “for taking that stupid piece of grit from your eye – and for being in love with you.”
> 
> “I’ll forgive you… if you forgive me,” she says, and they kiss for the final time as the smoke surrounds them.

* * *

**politicalmamaduck**  asked:  _Would you be interested in continuing your lovely Reylo medieval AU for the meme? ;)_

> “I gave you my token in confidence, Lord Ren,” she hisses in a narrow, darkly lit corridor, her dark eyes blazing, “any courtier knows a knight who wears the token of a lady carries love in his heart for her.”
> 
> “What, are you so ashamed of me, my lady?”—he gives a dangerous smile as he speaks—“You are perfectly happy to be with me in the night, after all.”

* * *

**mizjoely**  asked:  _Sherlolly, Indiana Jones AU?_

> “Okay then,” Molly sighed, withdrawing, “where doesn’t it hurt?”
> 
> Sherlock stared at her in examination, an echo of a glare in his frown, but his eyes softened. In the silence, he slowly pointed to the corner of his mouth.

* * *

 

**introspectivenavelgazer**  asked:  _Salcroft, opposing universitu debate team AU_

> “I wonder how you do it,” he says idly one night when they’re sneaking a smoke behind the venue.
> 
> “Do what?” she asks.
> 
> “Live with such passion,” he says, giving a smile as she snorts; he takes a drag of his cigarette, billowing the smoke out into the evening.


	280. 5 of 5. (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's another go-around of the "send me a pairing, the first sentence of a fic and I'll write the next five" meme.

**introspectivenavelgazer**  asked:  _"it was hard not to stare at her breasts, which braless, wobbled like a hello mold" sherlolly. And I know it's not jello, but I can't think of the other phrase right now._

> It was hard not to stare at her breasts, which braless, wobbled like a jelly mould. Especially when she bent down close to him, rummaging inside the drawers of the bedside table, searching for one blasted necklace.
> 
> “Molly,” Sherlock said, eyes firmly on her tits and a smile at the corner of his mouth, “I’m  _trying_  to solve a case – your breasts are somewhat distracting.”
> 
> “Well, kiss them or fetch me a bra,” she said playfully, sliding the necklace over her head. The pendant, a silver and gold bee, nestled between her breasts. “Simple enough.”
> 
> The bee bounced and Molly squealed as her husband practically tackled her to the bed.

* * *

 

 **random-nexus**  asked:  _1st Sentence Meme: Molly lifted her chin, held Sherlock's gaze with more strength than she could have once upon a time, and challenged, "Was that supposed to scare me off?"_

> Molly lifted her chin, held Sherlock’s gaze with more strength than she could have once upon a time, and challenged, “Was that supposed to scare me off?”
> 
> She rolled her shoulders, frowning where Sherlock Holmes chuckled. His hands smoothed over her shoulders, drawing over her bicep. His fingers looped around her wrist. She returned the gesture.
> 
> “Elevated,” he said, with a brief raise of his eyebrows.
> 
> “What a pair we make,” she said, with a shrug, then a smile.

* * *

 

 **mizjoely**  asked:  _Sherlolly: It's your turn to make the tea._

> “It’s your turn to make the tea,” Sherlock said, flicking through a copy of What We Owe to Each Other.
> 
> “Forget tea!” Molly Hooper, his soulmate, cried, “I, a prominent pathologist, am trying to teach a sociopath about  _ethics_! Which isn’t even my job!”
> 
> “This neighbourhood is under quarantine – please remain calm, and don’t go outside.”
> 
> “And  _that_ , playing on a loop,” she dumped the mugs into the sink, “doesn’t help things either!”
> 
> Sherlock blinked, sitting up straight. “It doesn’t, does it? Molly Hooper…”
> 
> “What?!” she snapped, sloshing water over the Scandinavian style mugs he despised.
> 
> “I know why we’re here.”

* * *

 

 **thiscaringlark**  asked:  _sherlolly: "Maybe Mary was right," Molly thought._

> Maybe Mary was right, Molly thought aloud.
> 
> Living hand in hand, heart with heart, with Sherlock Holmes, not the man but the concept, the idea, was akin to stepping not into a war, but stepping into the aftermath. Sifting through the quiet chaos, with a risk of the symphony shifting into another movement, another pulse.
> 
> But then she sees the quiet amidst the chaos. How he smiles when he wakes in the middle of the night, haunted by dreams of new-found memories, because he wants to do anything but cause her more pain, but then (slowly, surely, with tears and kisses to her temple and their hands on one another’s body) speaks, for he understands now that keeping things from her will only undo all that—in a matter of minutes.
> 
> Mary was right, Molly thinks as she cuddles him, big spoon to his little spoon, but in being right, he’s the better man he always was meant to be.

* * *

 

 **introspectivenavelgazer**  asked:  _"if you stay on my lap, we're going to starve because I can't get up to cook," he grumbled. salcroft_

> “If you stay on my lap, we’re going to starve because I can’t get up to cook,” he grumbled.
> 
> Sally Donovan snuggled further into him in reply, as if she were a cat who had claimed possession of her master’s favourite wingbacked armchair. “We can order takeout,” she said, and he could feel her smile as the ball of her foot flexed over his trouser leg, down towards the floor.
> 
> “Diet,” he sighed into her ear, his hands threading into her hair and around her waist.
> 
> “Could have a free day,” she hummed, as he kissed her temple, then her cheek, the corner of her mouth.
> 
> “One free day leads to a lot more, Mrs Donovan,” Mycroft said, sliding his palm down her body, her breath hot on his jawline as she mewled, “more… and more…”

* * *

 

 **Anonymous**  asked:  _Sherlolly: Is it wrong for a woman to enjoy sex, just like a man?_

> “It is wrong for a woman to enjoy sex, just like a man?”
> 
> “Who the  _hell_  told you that?” Mary asked with a snort, but then her grin became a grimace. “Ugh, if it was Sherlock… I’ll happily punch him in the dick.”
> 
> “No… just own…” Molly waved a hand, “reflections.”
> 
> “Oh, I know what happened,” Mary said, wisdom glinting in her eyes, “you discovered you’re a screamer?”
> 
> “So’s he,” Molly sighed. “We’ve had to buy Mrs Hudson industrial strength earplugs and I baked her a batch of cookies by way of apology.”

* * *

**Anonymous**  asked:  _Sherlolly: "I think it's fair to say I'm a little bit sexy"_

> “I think it’s fair to say I’m a little bit sexy?” Molly asked, turning in the mirror, glancing over her shoulder at her reflection, her brow sinking into a frown. “God that sounds arrogant – but – maybe?”
> 
> She turned back, amidst all the basque sets and chemises, teddies (which weren’t what he’d thought they were) she’d tried on during the entirety of the afternoon, to face Sherlock. She gave a smile.
> 
> The set she wore now was pastel pink lace, a thong and a plunge bra covered by a slip of translucent material; tantalising, teasing… playful.
> 
> “It’s… fine,” Sherlock said, his mouth dry at the knowledge that it wasn’t for him.

 


	281. Sparkle. (Rey/Kylo Ren, Twilight AU [Parody])

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two vampire fics coming up now, both parodies. This one is a play on the 'sparklepire' trend of Twilight and the trope of "Emo Kylo Ren". Mostly sparked by needless fandom discourse, as is most of my crack fic.

Something was different about him. Since the fight in the snow, when she had laid him out cold, to when she looked at him now, there was something different. 

He stuck to the shadows.

His gloves never left his hands.

His face remained hidden.

Rey didn’t know what it was, but she was determined to find out.

To the holonet, she went. Holed up in her hut, away from her master, as the clouds over Ahch-To darkened. She typed, clicked, searched; read through hundreds and hundreds of pages of information, her eyes scanning ancient words she trembled to think what they meant. All she could focus upon were the pictures, drawn in ink, before the time of the holonet and comms.

They depicted hearts, muscle, limbs. Blood. Feathers spawn and scattered over rocks.

She trod the rocks of Ahch-To carefully that night and found a place to sleep in the cold night wind. The porgs, lesser in number than when she had arrived, came to and fro, curious eyes blinking and their feathers ruffling.

“Rey…" 

She jerked awake with a gasp, scrambling back as she saw a dark figure in the distance, the voice mangled from behind the mask.

Kylo Ren stepped forward.

"You know what you did to me,” he said. “Scavenger.”

“I know what you are,” Rey replied, finding her voice. She stood, her back turned to him. She should never turn her back on an enemy, but something told her, implicitly, that she could trust him. “You’re impossibly fast… strong… you never remove your gloves. You never show your face. Nor come out in sunlight.”

There was a long, still silence.

The hiss of his mask broke it. Through the dark, she saw the jagged line of his scar.

“The First Order doesn’t know I’m here,” he said softly.

“How… long have you been here?” Rey asked.

His mouth twitched with a smile before it fell back into the dark, pensive frown. “A while.”

“You know what I am,” he said as her eyes fell on the porgs slowly gathering around her, a protective circle. Their feathers fluttered again, angry at this new presence.

“Say it,” he hissed. “Out loud.”

“Vampire.”

The taut thread snapped. The porgs screeched as the sun broke through the clouds. Kylo Ren hurried past her, pushed past her towards the caves. Rey scrambled to follow, ducking underneath the entrance to the cave, finding him standing in the middle of a dark water pool. His hands were bare. Sunlight trickled through in white beams through cracks in the cave’s ceiling.

“Ask me the most basic question, scavenger.” He whirled on her, his cape splashing water. His hair hung limply over his eyes, his eyes intense. “What do I eat?”

Rey glanced back over her shoulder. The porgs gathered at the entrance to the cave, peering through at the scene. They hissed and squawked when they saw Kylo Ren.

“I think I’ve figured it out,” she said slowly. She turned her attention back to Ren. Her mortal enemy. Her brow dipped in a disbelieving frown. “How could you?”

“I was desperate,” he said, anguish in his voice. He whirled around again, his back to her, sinking down to sit in the shallow water. His hands sank into his hair. “You were the first person I ever wanted… that way. The bacta made me this way. And all I could think of was the cliff edge – how your pulse beat – and I wanted you. I wanted to kill you.”

“I wanted to kill you too,” Rey replied, tone even to his trembling, stilted voice. “I still want to.”

“Don’t you understand?” Ren hissed, standing, still with his back to her. “I’m a killer, scavenger! A murderer!”

“I know.”

“No! You don’t!” His voice echoed, and Rey took a step back as he turned again, his tunic hanging limply at either side of his torso. Where the beams of sunlight hit him, his pale skin sparkled like a thousand kyber crystals covering his body. His hands too, shone. His eyes lit up, the colour of topaz.

“You need a teacher,” he said into the silence, a snarl coming to his lips as he moved into the shadows, closer towards her. “Someone designed to be a killer. Me. My uncle can teach you well enough – I can make you, Rey.”

“Well, that’s a way to kill a mood,” Rey sighed. She rolled her eyes, hiding a smile as Ren frowned. She turned on her heel, heading out of the cave. “I’ll leave you to your… gleaming. Up to you whether Skywalker catches you. Don’t eat any more porgs, okay?”

“So that’s a maybe?” Kylo Ren called after her. The porgs hissed in reply. “And I don’t appreciate sparkle jokes!”


	282. Kylo Ren: Dead and Loving It. (Rey/Kylo Ren, Vampire!AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second vampire fic; this one is inspired by the movie Dracula: Dead and Loving It, with the seed planted by disasterisms/kylorenvevo. This is 800+ words of cracky fun and general over the top gothic parody nonsense.

The moon shone white in the inky black night, peppered with stars. The  _villa de Cassatoria_ , nestled in the forests and hills of Southern Italy, was grey in the light of day, an ancient monument to the faded artists of stone, and when the moon passed over it, dappled by clouds, it shone silver in the evening.  _Lake Victoire_ shimmered with the faint wind, bringing with it a soft whisper; a voice, which appeared to call from its very heart, a name:

_Rey…_

To her breast, she clutched her pretty pale hands, her sleep fitful as the clouds swirled in the air above the  _villa de Cassiatoria_. The leaves on the trees outside her chambers rustled softly.

_Rey…_

The figure she feared and yet felt inexorably drawn to, she knew, was drawing near. She felt him as she dreamt, and she held her breast tighter still, whimpering as she slept, her head tossing and turning on her on her silken pillow. Rose, her devoted friend since their days in London, learning what good ladies learned, awoke from her own bed, disturbed by dreams too terrible to describe, and felt her good friend’s distress in her own heart. She stood, and tried to shake her awake, whispering in her ear, pleading with her to open her eyes, for she was a valiant soul, especially when it came to the friend she shared one half of a heart with, who she loved with her own soul—

A voice came to her then, as she struggled in vain, a dark mystery laced with danger. Her mind drew her to step back, but her heart felt to obey the voice.

“Rose,” whispered it, soft like a lover’s intimacy that she did not recognise. “Your eyelids grow heavy – you feel you must sleep – sleep, sweet Rose…”

Oh, but how much she wished to disobey that sweet, sensuous voice! Silent tears fell from her face as she withdrew, sleeping on top of her silken sheets, underneath the canopy of her bed. Soundly she slept, soundly.

“Rey…” murmured the voice. “Rise, my darling.”

The agitation which had plagued her, led to her shivering and whimpering, all at once left her. Held by some ancient, dark magic, drawn to the figure standing beyond the terrace door, in the soft Italian summer evening, she stood.

“Open your eyes.”

Open them, she did, but she saw nothing save her lover’s face, the face she had met among a crowd and set her heart racing underneath her pert, perfect bosom.

“Go to the door,” guided her sweet lover, the dark figure who spoke to her as if by her side, his lips against her neck. She sighed in anticipation of what was yet to come, the promises he would make to her that even now, she could hear and feel in the blood contained within her youthful body.

“That is to come.” A slyness came to the voice, and he repeated the command. Yearning for him, she turned, walking into the darkness.

“Rey… you are in the closet. Open the door, and come out.” She obeyed him without thought, that dark figure which dominated her dreams, her every waking thought. Now, she gave herself over to him, listening to each command that passed his lips. “Walk to the terrace door. Mind the foot—”

She felt the burn of the carpet, the sting of the landing. She waited for his command.

“Stool.” The dark figure she knew stood so close to her, he sighed. “Alright. My darling, stand up. Up. No! Not you! Sit!”

She dropped, cross-legged, to the floor of her chambers.

“No, not you. Sit.  _You_ , stand.”

It was no effort at all to stand for her promised lover, the man who would give her the passionate, daring, sexual, no-holds-barred frenzy that no story, no father, and no warden, ever dared speak of.

“No! Sit!”

She sat.

“Stand!”

She stood. Anything her dark prince commanded.

“Alright, one last time.” Impatience lined the luscious voice of ultimate darkness. “You walk to the terrace door, and you go back to sleep – ah! Watch out!”

Rose, her bosom friend with whom she had shared a youth and half a heart, bumped hard into her, and it was to the floor she fell, lying in her silken nightgown, her pale skin shining blue in the moonlight.

“If I weren’t a dark prince of the night I would—” Her prince muttered under his breath, sighing a sweet sound that bested any music. “Wait there, I’m coming in.”

She saw his face, heard the squeak of the terrace door, and his soft, delicious words.

“You will be my bride throughout eternity… We’ll share the endless passion of…” A silence then, came into the air, and the night birds sang their song. “Oh, damn it!”

Her body floated in his strong arms then, after hearing a thud and mutterings of his rich tone. “You will be my bride throughout eternity,” her dark prince said rapidly, “we’ll share the endless passion of immortal love. Bloody hypnosis.”


	283. Warriors. (Rey/Kylo Ren)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The First Order has risen from the ashes of the Empire. The Resistance has been formed by General Organa, with her son, Ben Organa-Solo as Commander and her right-hand man while her husband Han Solo fights on the frontline. To avoid the mistakes of the Galactic Civil War, Leia Organa has called for troops to only be admitted over the age of 20. Having been turned away from a pilot position for being only 19, Rey, the daughter of a Jedi and eager to carry on her mother’s legacy and bring down evil in the galaxy, disguises herself as a male and lies about her age in order to gain a position in the training ranks of foot soldiers on Crait, the Resistance’s latest base of operations. She doesn’t count on her training commander being Ben Organa-Solo himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTE:** This following AU has its premise shamelessly stolen from Disney’s Mulan, ~~and much of the dialogue for the porgs is stolen from Mushu tbh~~ , but I have no intention of whitewashing the movie itself. This canonverse story is primarily about Rey, punk ass daughter of a Jedi, wanting so much to punch a First Order officer in the face, she’ll disguise herself as a man to do it.
> 
> (Story aesthetic made by me.)

* * *

 

“Okay.” Feeling the ground underneath her feet, Rey held her mother’s lightsaber in both hands. She thumbed it on. The green blade hummed, the hilt vibrating underneath her touch as if knowing her emotions, her confusion. Rey swallowed it down, drawing the Force inward then exploding it outwards over her skin, a mask of calm. The hilt of the lightsaber vibrated still.

Rey cricked her neck, shifting her weight. “We’ve got this– I can do this—”

“H-yah! Yah! Yah!” She jabbed left and right, as she’d watched her mother do in the mountain gardens, away from everything but the Force. She twisted on her heels, thrusting her mother’s saber forward, “ _ahhh!_ ”

She stumbled forward, the blade sinking into the thick tree trunk, splitting it in half. With a gasp, thinking quick, Rey dropped into a roll, hearing the rush of leaves, the cracking of the trunk as it fell, landing with a dull thud. Above, birds fluttered from the branches. In the thick water, creatures growled. Her heart hammering, blinking, Rey sat back on her elbows, watching as splinters drifting towards the swampy underground.

Her mother’s lightsaber hummed in her palm.

Remembering herself, she switched it off, clambering to her feet.

Behind her, she heard the amused beep of her mother’s astromech droid, KE-88.

“I’m working on it,” Rey snapped, heading towards the speeder bike, throwing open one of the saddlebags and sliding the lightsaber inside. She retrieved a muja fruit, biting roughly at the skin, not caring about the juice dribbling down her chin. “I’m not asking for a miracle, to be suddenly able to wield a lightsaber.”

“Did I hear someone ask for a miracle?”

An explosion of fire appeared at her left, and Rey stumbled back, swearing in Huttese at the apparition before her. A long, thin shadow tangled within the hot orange flames of a campfire, part way up the hill before her. The shadow’s arms, vine-like in their length, weaved upwards and out in an arc.

“Let me hear you!” called the apparition, its voice high and eager.

Rey blinked, once, twice.

“What the kriff?” she whispered, stepping closer to the apparition.

“It’s okay, we’ll skip that. Rey, get ready, for your salvation is at hand! For your ancestors, all as strong in the Force as you, have sent me to help you through your masquerade!”

Rey glanced to Kayee, who, staring at the flames turned their head towards her and beeped.

“Exactly,” Rey murmured, raising her voice and her eyebrows when she looked back at the dying campfire. “Um, who are you?”

“Me? I am a guardian of lost souls, Rey– I’m the powerful– the pleasurable, the indestructible—” A part of Rey’s heart lifted as the long shadow moved, the flames dying, waiting to see what lay beyond it, and sank when from behind the rock, a strange little bird waddled out. Its wings were flat and narrow, flapping against a rounded body, grey with a burst of orange at its chest. Rising up, it flew over her head, round and round in three little circles, before settling on Kayee’s head. “Jado.”

Affronted, Kayee rolled over the swampy ground towards the water, lurching their body forward. The creature, thrown forwards, squawked its squawk, more of a squeak, and landed in the water with a splash.

Rey hurried towards the lake’s edge, peering, but the creature resurfaced, lake water running in drips down its feathers. It shook itself free of the water and landed once again on top of Kayee. Kayee beeped indignantly, threatening the creature with another dip, but the creature merely ruffled its feathers, staring up at Rey.

Rey dropped to a crouch before the creature. It reminded her somehow of a purra-bird, preening and waiting for praise with its wide, wide black-brown eyes.

“My ancestors sent a little purra-bird to help me?”

“Porg, not purra,” the creature spat, ruffling feathers, offended at such a suggestion. “I don’t do that squawk thing.”

“Uh… right.” Rey stood, which only made the height difference worse. “You’re— you’re really not what I would expect. You’re tiny, for one thing.”

“Oh sure, but if I were my real size, your droid would short-circuit out of sheer fear, that’s for sure. A porg’s powers,” the porg continued, “are beyond any human’s imagination. We do more than fly, you know. If I wanted to, I could shrink down to an atom and hide right inside your tunic.”

She couldn’t exactly say why, but at such a comment, she instantly smacked the porg, which sent it flying back right into a puddle of mud. The porg in response, flipped up onto its feet, waddling quickly towards her, roaring in a tiny squawk.

“Dishonour!” it screamed, slapping her shins with its wings, “Dishonour on you, dishonour on your bucket—”

Rey scooped up with the porg with both hands, her voice tumbling over her tongue to deliver an apology.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it—” Kayee beeped, annoyed still, and Rey frowned down at them. “Ssh! He’s adorable.”

“Don’t call me adorable!”

Rey cringed. “Sorry.”

“Just about the worst thing you could call a porg. Anyway, you’re young, I’ll forgive you. C’mon, hop on your speeder,” urged the porg, gesturing towards the bike.

Rey frowned. “What?”

“Didn’t you listen to what I said up there?” asked the porg, impatient. He gestured back to the boulder and the wisps of smoke. “I am a  _guardian._  I’m here to help you with your masquerade. For a start, you’re gonna wanna clean up.”

“Clean up?” Rey wrinkled her nose, staring down at her tunic, marked with mud and earth, her boots caked in leaves.

“You look like you slept in Bantha fodder then were dragged backwards through an entire jungle, trust me. Now c’mon.” The porg jumped out of her palms, clambering with feet and wings up her arm, frowning at Rey’s giggles as he set himself on her shoulder. He reached out, flicking a smear of grease from her chin. “There’s a clean water lake just up that hill, a few klicks from base camp.”

* * *

“The latest strike by The First Order has severely depleted our numbers,” Leia explained, as foot soldiers, admirals and pilots alike gathered around the holo-table for the latest briefing. Her eyes slid towards Ben, who stood beside her. She smiled proudly, but still carried the air of a general, whatever she did. Leia Organa never allowed anything to undermine her authority, and it made the Resistance look to her like a homing beacon. “Intel has led us to understand that a strike on our eastern trenches on Crait will take place. We cannot afford to lose this holding. General Solo is already leading a platoon to defend, while Commander Organa-Solo will train the new onset of troops. Admiral Ackbar, you will lead the air support for General Solo. Understood?”

Every member of the Resistance nodded, murmurs of conversation springing up as they fanned outwards. Ben stayed by his mother’s side, a glower etched into his face, even as she turned away from the holo-table and glanced through a datapad.

Her eyes did not look up from the data pad when she spoke.

“My father commands a platoon, while I, a commander, stay behind to train soldiers and— what, shuffle papers?”

“And in time, when support is needed, you shall be summoned. I’ve made that clear enough, Ben. Until then, you do your part for the Resistance and the war.” Leia pressed the datapad into his hands, leaving no room for an answer from her son, firmly pressing a door closed on any potential argument. As the years went on, he looked like his father, so his uncle said, and behaved like her. “These will be your soldiers.”

“They hardly look promising,” Ben grumbled, his thumb flicking through file after file, drawing up blue-tinged images of eager faces, sons of pilots and foot soldiers who had all fought before.

“All of them are the descendants of the Jedi.”

Ben went still. His grip tightened on the datapad.

“Wouldn’t Uncle Luke be more suited to training them?”

“They don’t wish to be Jedi, they want to fight. But they still need to be taught how to use a lightsaber,” Leia added, turning to face her son, her eyes falling on her father’s lightsaber, strapped to her son’s hip.

“I’m not surprised. Their ancestors weren’t very good at keeping their vows, were they?” Ben muttered. His mother chuckled.

“Biology is biology, Ben. You’ll meet your recruits after lunch, which is now.”

On cue, a distant crash sounded from the canteen, located to the left, down a wide corridor. Ben hurried down the corridor, pressing his palm against the entrance panel, his mother just behind. His mouth went dry from fury as the doors slid open. Pashi noodles and fists were slung from man to man, Huttese curses yelled and insults were thrown. His mother ducked, avoiding an approaching missile of noodle.

“Day one,” she said. She patted Ben on the high of his back, turning away. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Ben clenched his datapad as he stormed forward.

“Soldiers!”

His commanding yell echoed around the high ceiling of the canteen.

Each fight paused. Black eyes already formed stared back at him. Some sons, aware of where exactly they were, and who exactly was before them, nervously adjusted their ripped sleeves and tried to wipe away noodle stains from their uniforms with their fingertips.

In the centre of the crowd, a soldier, with a lightsaber strapped to their hip, their skin and uniform scrubbed clean, lay on the ground, curled in upon himself.

Ben stopped before the soldier, glaring, with his hands on his hips.

“Get up.”

The soldier slowly lifted his head, peering through the gaps of his fingers at his commander.

His uniform, now Ben could take a closer look at it, was odd. It was not the official uniform of the Resistance, that the other soldiers had failed to look after in their various fights, all started over Pashi it seemed, but called back to the time of the Empire, and the Alliance that wiped it from history, promising a new start.

The soldier, who looked too young to be over 21-year cycles (as so many did, they seemed younger and younger as he endured another year of the war), rapidly brushed noodle from the leather of his jacket and the cotton of his trousers. He bowed his head. His deep brown hair was pulled back into a bun at the nape of his neck and he stood straight with his shoulders flung back, his feet an equidistance apart.

A smirk twitched at the corner of Ben’s mouth.

“I assume you are the reason for this mess.”

“Uh…”

Ben returned his attention towards the datapad. “What’s your name?”

“Uh… I…”

He quirked his head up, narrowing his eyes. “Answer it, soldier.”

“I don’t—” The soldier cleared his throat, his voice descending two or three registers. He frowned, his eyes flickering towards a dark-skinned soldier standing among the crowd, sporting only a scuff on his cheek from the mass fight. “His name is Finn.”

“His name wasn’t the one I asked for,” Ben snapped, crowding the soldier before him, looming over his short stature. “I want to know your name.”

“Um, – no, Jado!”

“Jado?”

“No! Pinn!”

For a moment, Ben thought he’d misheard the soldier. He flicked through the blue images, glancing between them and the soldier.  

“I can’t find you on the database.”

“I’m a late conscription,” the soldier replied. Ben’s chest tightened, his hackles raised.

“You can confirm that? Pinn?” he asked, into a dangerous silence. He swallowed a smirk as the soldier frowned. Naivety was sketched into the soldier’s face, but The First Order was cunning; naivety could easily mask intelligence, and leaks could spread faster than contained. It was a paranoid way of thinking, but one he’d adopted long ago.

An astromech droid rolled forward from the back of the crowd, bumping through the bodies of other soldiers to approach Ben. He knew basic Droid, and just about followed the droid’s beeps. Apparently, the droid belonged to the Pinn boy. He recognised a name and raised his eyebrows.

“Your mother?” he asked, tilting his head towards Pinn. “Wasn’t aware she had a son.”

“Well, uh, I’m younger than you. Obviously.”

Ben narrowed his eyes. “Obviously.” He tapped out a note onto the datapad. “Your droid will be analysed by our resident protocol droid for identity confirmation. Until your identity can be confirmed, you’ll be confined to quarters. Dismissed.”

The soldier fell in then, drawing his feet together and clasping his hands behind his back, bowing shortly. Ben gazed past him at the rest of the soldiers.

“Clean yourselves up, and get back here. I want every single Phasi noodle picked up before the end of the day. Understood?” Immediate protestations blew up.

“But sir—”

“It was him!”

“He started it!”

“Pinn—”

“My command is final, soldiers,” Ben spat, voice rising above them. “Pinn, you will be among them. Apart from that, confined to quarters. Understood?”

The answer came in unison.

“Yes, sir!”

Ben exited the canteen, ignoring the jibes thrown the way of the young Pinn by the troops. If he were a double agent for The First Order, he would have more than disgruntled soldiers to look out for, that was for sure.


	284. Moonlight. (Rey/Kylo Ren)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cuquas asked: "Moon and/or Necromancers, for Reylo?" from a Halloween prompt meme. This one's set in Celtic times.

It is an ancient magic, that lies in the trees of her homeland. Once a year, her family congregates here. In the dark, among the twisted black branches, monsters reaching out, snatching, ripping, tearing at clothes and skin.

All her life, she has been told that the ghosts will appear to her, and speak to her. 

The magic so ancient is especially prominent within her, the mixing of ordinary with extraordinary in her blood heightening, not dulling, the power of her family.

Her grandfather looks upon her with shame. He seems to carry an apology in his eyes whenever he looks at her. Apologising for her existence; another of his line burdened with the duty of this magic.

She doesn’t want the duty. To ferry souls to the underworld. The literature in her father’s study speaks of things like what she is. Necromancy; demons; monsters; inhuman. She tries to be old, as old as her father and grandfather need her to be, but she is nine and ten, nearly twenty, and such things frighten her.

She spends the evening before the ceremony lying on her side, awake, staring up at stars.

It is a hot night. Cloudless. Sweat grows on her skin as the moon and stars light her skin pale blue, her fingers wrapped around the dagger at her waist. The slow breeze catches the braids in her hair. 

She tries to resist the call.

* * *

Dewdrops shimmer on her feet like diamonds, shards of long grass sliding between her toes. Her footsteps are soft on the ground, the whole world barely awake. In the mouth of the dark cave, the yellow light flickers in the soft wind.

The face that meets her is one she knows more from images than flesh, and he carries his beauty oddly, like something he doesn’t quite believe. He seems to be another world entirely when he looks upon her, one away from the ghosts.

That’s why she hears his call in her mind and sinks into his chest as he wraps his arms around her.

He washes her feet in crisp water from the brook that rushes through the dense forest, his touch hesitating at her ankle, circling the line of her shin up her leg towards the low of her thigh. She draws away then.

“You’re a monster,” she murmurs, her hair hiding her face.

That’s what her family thinks of him. The boy who ran away from blood like no-one else had before; the boy who exchanged his skills for coin, reuniting grieving widows with their husbands for a single night of each year. They have taken to naming it Samhain.

“We are selfish,” he replies, sliding her boots over her feet and wrapping her arms in strips of cloth. ‘We’. The necromancers. “Keeping our magic for ourselves,” he says.

“They control the ghosts,” she argues, without conviction. Without them guarding the portal, the undead would rise, so the scripture says, and the balance of magic would be split apart.

With every coin he takes, and every soul he rises for a sobbing widow, he rips the delicate balance apart a little bit more.

That’s what they say.

“My offer stands,” he says after a still, timeless silence. “You need a teacher, Rey.”

His voice softens, always, when he speaks her name, and it makes her heart hitch a little. 

That’s when she leaves. Because if she admits why, she’ll be lost forever, and might, one day, just take the hand he offers out to her. And everything that comes with it.


	285. Haunted. (Rey/Kylo Ren, Modern AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> politicalmamaduck asked for "Reincarnation for Reylo" from the Halloween ask meme.

One life, they meet across the dust pans of the desert. She is a scavenger, thieving, and he is holding his pistol to her cheek. In that life, they carry what they can in saddlebags and share a life together as wanderers. They jump from city to city in flashes. He dies from a single gunshot wound to the chest.

Another life, she’s the adoptive daughter of a petty drug pusher, ex-soldier from the trenches who smokes cigarettes, his black hair grimy, and uses her for his dirty work. She runs errands, steals and turns a blind eye to what goes on while she sleeps. He tries to do the same, ignoring how she bites her red-stained lips when she’s preparing to lie, but something pulls him to her. He ends killing one of London’s greatest criminal bosses and being killed by his boss’ lieutenant. All for a girl with innocent eyes despite all she’d done.

In one, he is a king, she is a noble and he is brought to his knees by her power.

These are dreams, and he wakes from the most recent one in a cold sweat. The girl has brown eyes and brown hair. She could be anyone; she is anyone, he surmises, rubbing his eyes of sleep as he draws her face in lines of charcoal on yellow paper, again and again, his apartment filled with microexpressions of a woman who doesn’t exist. New York noisily surrounds him.

He sinks into the noise and the mess and draws on.

He wonders if he keeps drawing her if she will leave him. Haunt someone else.

But then he dreams again, and it is another life. He dies at her hand in this life, her sword sliding into his gut and out again, watching with blank eyes, a tear on her cheek, as he bleeds out in front of her. At the last moment, she tries to save him. Her bloody fingers linking into his is the single last thing he feels before he wakes up.

He continues to draw and hopes that one day, the dreams will stop.

Across the sea, a girl with brown eyes and brown hair confesses her dreams to the ocean air and prays for the dreams to continue, and to one day find him.


	286. Haunted House. (Sally Donovan/Mycroft Holmes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> introspectivenavelgazer asked: "Haunted house, Salcroft". This turned out more humorous, this drabble, than scary because I can't think of 'haunted house' without thinking of either Michael Jackson's Thriller or the annual photos released by [Nightmare Fears Factory](https://www.flickr.com/photos/nightmaresfearfactory/) in Canada.

“It’ll be fun. Fifteen minutes, get a picture at the end.”

“It’s infantile,” Mycroft replied, staring at the giant skull that was supposed to represent death and the facsimile ancient stone. Then he looked at his wife, and saw her impish smile, and decided he could indulge her for fifteen minutes.

“Please,” Sally scoffed, reading his expression and sliding the attraction’s leaflet into the back pocket of her jeans, “you’ve been indulging me this entire holiday.”

Mycroft sighed, though his mouth twitched with a smile as she slid her arm through his, holding him tightly.

“Scared, Mrs Holmes?”

“Not at all, Mr Donovan-Holmes,” Sally replied archly. 

An hour later, tears streamed down Sally’s face as she laughed at the picture in Mycroft’s hands.

“Amazing,” Mycroft mused, “how the face can contort.”

“You’ve never hugged me harder,” she retorted, smiling down at the picture. Her right leg was raised up towards her chin, her eyes wide and her mouth wide with fear, while Mycroft Holmes had his arms clamped tight around her waist, his eyes screwed shut and his face in her hair.

On their return, the picture took pride of place on the mantelpiece.


End file.
